Your Hand Feels So Grand In Mine
by writingfanficlikeabus
Summary: On the day of her eighteenth birthday, Fanny is shocked to find the name of a woman on her wrist. At first, she ignores it, but things get a bit more complicated when Mary Crawford herself shows up at Mansfield Park. Soulmate AU, F/F, racebending.
1. Chapter 1

_Don't take my arm too much  
_ _Don't keep your hand in mine  
_ ** _Your hand feels so grand in mine  
_** _People will say we're in love  
_ \- 'People Will Say We're In Love', from _Oklahoma!_

It was commonly known, at the time, that upon the event of someone reaching their eighteenth birthday, two - or more, in some, rarely talked about, cases - signatures appeared on their wrists. One had the name of their soulmate, the person best suited for them in life, romantically or otherwise (again, these latter people were never talked about, except for when the name was of someone of the same gender. It truly is amazing, the number of truths thought inconvenient until they suddenly become useful). The other had the name of the person they would, or had already, convinced themselves was their soulmate, whether consciously or no. Of course, as is the way of these things, no one ever _knew_ which was which, except by their own inference, or, if they were lucky, events which exposed one or the other. Many young people, eager to meet their soulmate, married quickly, only to discover that there had been a mistake; that their new spouse was not, in fact, the right of the persons on their wrists. This rarely impeded marriages for long; a soulmate may be a person's perfect match, but many imperfect ones are often made with some success. It is a simple fact that a marriage will work if it is formed with love and respect. Even marriages where those values were absent could often function if the two members showed enough skill at avoiding one other.

Henry Crawford was somewhat of an outlier. On his eighteenth birthday, only one name formed, on his left wrist; Henry had never set much store by soulmates, or really, truly falling in love outside of an idle flirtation, and so, accordingly, he had never and would never become so deeply in love that he could possibly believe that person and him to be destined. Unless, of course, the object of his love was, truly, the one most suited to him in all the world. Even then, the name was faded, barely legible unless you chose to look closely, which Henry didn't. His sister Mary, on the other hand…well, Mary looked very carefully indeed at things which could further her own self-interest, and considered her brother's soulmate to fall squarely into that category. She spent two years carefully studying the words on her brother's wrist, memorising the script, the name.

So her own eighteenth birthday came as quite a shock. On her right wrist was _Mary Crawford,_ scrawled carelessly in large, elegant letters (she laughed silently, and knew this to be the false name - she may very well _convince_ herself, or have convinced herself in the past, that she was the only person good for her, but it was unlikely to be true. It faded, but remained visible, etched onto her dark brown skin). On her left was a familiar, small script - almost as if its owner feared irritating someone by taking up too much paper. It was much bolder than it was on her brother, but still…she had looked at it for long enough in _that_ state to recognise it on sight.

 _Fanny Price._

Mary stared at her wrist absently for a moment, thought briefly what a shame it was that she and Henry were predestined to be rivals, then resolved to start wearing longer sleeves. After all, no matter how little she cared about the issue of having a female soulmate herself, it wouldn't do to scandalise society _quite_ that much. A fortune of twenty thousand pounds can do many things, but it is not so strong an incentive that people would forget such a thing, and welcome such a person into their homes.

* * *

Far away and several years later, Fanny Price started crying.

Written on one of her wrists, in the perfectly formed writing which was so familiar to her, was the name _Edmund Bertram._

That was enough of a problem - the necessity of hiding it from the Bertrams did not exactly please her - but it was not the reason for her tears.

The other wrist said _Mary Crawford._

Steps on the stairs! Fanny quickly pulled the sleeves of her nightdress down to hide the words, in case whoever it was chose to enter the room suddenly.

A knock on the door. A quiet, "Fanny?" Of course; who else but Edmund would have wasted their time on her? She called for him to wait, and quickly got dressed, making sure to wear a thick dress, even though the July sun was already shining through the windows. One which was most likely to hide her secret.

Edmund was standing there, neatly dressed (of course he was; Edmund made it a careful habit to be awake and ready for the day - and above all, tidy - before anyone else) and wearing a concerned expression on his handsome, pale face. Fanny's heart swelled, but as it did so, her left wrist (the one which she was so aware had his name on it) began to itch, and so she forced the feeling down and smiled at him, trying to ignore, as she did so, the few tears still making their way down her face.

"Well, ah," Edmund looked embarrassed, "I was curious as to whether you would be prepared to show your soulmates to any of your family? Of course, you are not obligated to...to show your aunts, or your other cousins, but perhaps..?"

The implication of his question hung in the air between them. _Perhaps you would show me?_

Here, Fanny had a problem. She truly loved her cousin (the name had forced her to acknowledge _that_ as fact), but she felt, just as truly, that she could not show him either wrist.

"I-I would really rather not, cousin Edmund," she made herself say, and tried not to notice the disappointment in his expression, or the voice in her head that sounded like Mrs Norris - always Mrs Norris! - telling her that she was selfish, that Edmund deserved to know, and that she was being ungrateful. Alas, she was not successful - the simple refusal of her cousin's request had wracked poor Fanny so much that she began to cry again. Panic crossed Edmund's face, just for a moment, before a more soothing expression took its place.

"Fanny, I should apologise. It was wrong for me to ask something so personal of you, especially when I haven't even showed you either of _my_ names. Come, compose yourself, and once you feel prepared, I shall escort you down to breakfast."

* * *

Soon enough, the door opened on Edmund again, and Fanny, the fresh tears still drying on her face and her eyes turned slightly pink from crying, took his arm. He served as a calming presence, even without speaking, and Fanny soon felt as close to her normal self as she could, with the knowledge that the name of a woman sat on her right wrist.

The calm was soon gone away again, for the rest of the Bertram family - apart from, mercifully, her uncle, who, along with her cousin Tom, was in Antigua for the moment - despite their usual dismissiveness of Fanny, were suddenly crowding her, demanding she give up her secret. No matter how much she quietly refused, they continued to pester until the poor girl was quite in tears again. Edmund made an attempt to stop them, perhaps slightly tempered by his own curiosity, but it came to no avail. Maria and Julia chose a simple method, asking the same question over, and when there was a failure to answer that, making angry demands. Tom, if he had been there, would have no doubt joined them; there was something to be grateful about in his absence. Lady Bertram, when finally appealed to by her children, seemed barely to understand what was going on, so distracted she had been, but as soon as her children gave a (strongly biased, of course) account, she made an offer of whatever presents Fanny would like if she would only show them, and really, whatever the names were, they could not be so _very_ bad. Throughout all this, Fanny stayed silent, only made increasingly miserable by the questioning. It was amazing how much noise so few people could make, and she was almost tempted to give in. But fear - a greater fear than the consequences of her refusal - held her back.

"If you do not tell us," Maria said, more petulantly than could be thought possible for a young woman of twenty-one, "then when our father comes home, we shall have to tell him that you have been keeping secrets from us, and then he will _force_ you to tell us."

Fanny was terrified of her uncle; Maria knew this, and spoke hoping - correctly, it seemed - that on weighing her uncle seeing her wrists against the rest of the family doing the same, the latter was the lesser fear. Fanny, with shaking hands, began to roll up her sleeves.

The Bertrams craned to see the names. Edmund started, slightly, on seeing his own written in bold black.

For one brief, horrible moment, everyone seemed to freeze - even Lady Bertram, who usually showed so little interest in anything not related to herself or her beloved Pug.

"Oh, how boring," Maria complained. "They are only _platonic_ soulmates."

Julia frowned at her sister. "Are you certain, Maria? How can you be sure?"

She scoffed. "Is it not obvious? Why, with one of the names female, and the other that of our very own brother, how could there possibly be any hint of romance?"

And then the Bertrams' fleeting interest with their poorer cousin was gone, and as breakfast was served it seemed the entire issue was forgotten, the only indication to the contrary being the way Julia's eyes rested on Fanny for longer than usual, a flicker of curiosity igniting them. But for Fanny, whose mind was always ready to be filled with worry, and who, after all, was now fully, uncomfortably aware that her interest in Edmund was romantic, it sat there in her mind, as the days moved by ever so slowly. Minor, day to day worries, usually at the forefront of her mind, quickly vanished, but _Mary Crawford_ , sitting as it did on her wrist, remained. Fanny grew pale; she spoke to no-one, not even her beloved Edmund. If the Bertrams had deigned to pay attention to her, they would have no doubt of the cause. As it was, the world moved much as it usually did, with only the insignificance of the change in Fanny's mood to affect it. And, inevitably, given some time, and the lack of suspicion shown by the family, she calmed. Edmund's name was a worry, of course, but one which she could force herself to ignore; though it caused her pain, it was a bearable pain, within the realm of acceptable human experience. And as for the _other_ name, well, _she_ wasn't leaving her home, and what was the likelihood that this Mary Crawford would come to her?

* * *

"A parsonage?" Mary asked incredulously. "In the _countryside_?"

"I am afraid so," Henry said, his words laced with faux-solemnity. "I am sure I do not know how we will cope! The savagery of it all! Although, of course, you would not have a problem at all if you had simply… _gotten along_ with our uncle. Is it really so hard for you to like him, Mary?"

"Well I suppose it shall be nice to see our sister after such a long time away from each other," Mary continued, rather pointedly ignoring her brother. They had had similar conversations all throughout the time they had lived with Admiral Crawford. Nothing would come of it if she chose to argue; she could not convince him of the man's wickedness any more than he could convince her of his virtue. "At the very least, there will no doubt be some rich eldest son nearby, to flirt with."

"Unfortunately not," Henry said, pouring himself a glass of port from the decanter sat on the table. "An associate of mine has informed me - after I enquired, knowing your partiality to such men - that the gentleman in question has gone off to Antigua with his father. A shame, but I am sure you will cope; I hear his brother is a respectable young man."

Mary sighed. "I hold no stock by "respectable young men", Henry. Second sons yield no interest for me."

"Not even the second son of a baronet, as I am told is the case here? Ah, well. I suppose you shall simply have to waste away, without an eldest son to enjoy."

"You seem to think me to be so _exceedingly_ shallow that my sole focus is men. I shall tell you now, Henry, that it is entirely untrue. Why, I am tempted to enjoy myself _despite_ his absence, just to spite you!"

"Mary," Henry said, taking a large swig of his drink, "please believe me when I tell you that _nothing_ would make me happier. Now, shall you write to our sister, or shall I?"

* * *

"Mrs Grant informs us that her brother and sister, children of her mother's second marriage, will be joining her and Mr Grant in the parsonage," Edmund said, with an uncharacteristic nervousness underlying his words.

"I am sure they will be people of a most agreeable sort," Fanny said quietly. "But, cousin, since I am certain to be far too busy to join you in entertaining our guests-"

"They are two young people by the names of Henry and Mary Crawford," Edmund said quickly. "Perhaps Mrs Norris and my mother would permit you to join the rest of us, rather than running chores? They have been invited to dine with us, anyway, so you will not miss them entirely."

Fanny said nothing; all of a sudden, she was very pale, and her hands shook slightly where they rested on the table.

"Miss Crawford is one of the names on your wrists. Perhaps it would be best if you became acquainted with the woman who could potentially become your closest friend."

"If you…" Fanny's throat was suddenly dry. She gulped. "If you think it to be best, Edmund."

"Fanny, of _course_ I think it to be best," Edmund said gently. "But this is for your benefit, not mine. Sometimes I feel as if, well, as if you have no friends outside of myself - indeed, you have perhaps had no _opportunity_ make friends, as sheltered as you are here, and…perhaps you would enjoy the benefit of Miss Crawford's company."

Enjoying the pleasure of Miss Crawford's company was exactly what terrified Fanny, of course. But Edmund was not to know that, nor would she wish him to know. Besides, she could not wholly avoid her if they were coming to dine - even in her nervousness she was able to admit that to starve herself would be a silly thing to do, solely to avoid a person. And it was _Edmund_ requesting this of her; his younger cousin had never been known to refuse anything _he_ suggested. And so it was that she found herself sitting with the rest of the family, not so patiently waiting for the arrival of Mr and Miss Crawford, along with their half sister and her husband.

"Oh, do stop fidgeting, Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped. Fanny flinched.

"Yes, Fanny, do stop fidgeting," Lady Bertram echoed absentmindedly. "We must give these young people a good first impression of life here."

"I hardly think that the Crawfords will be so absorbed with ideas of propriety as to _care_ about one of our number moving as slightly as Fanny has done," Edmund said calmly.

The clock ticked by.

"Oh, when _shall_ they arrive?" Maria exclaimed loudly. She stood up and began to pace about the room. "It is not _polite_ to be late for a dinner engagement."

After an age, one of the servants stepped into the room to announce "Dr and Mrs Grant, Mr and Miss Crawford."

Mrs Grant came in first, greeting them all, thanking them for their hospitality, and apologising profusely for their lateness.

"We would have arrived here this half an hour gone, except Mary, I am afraid, took _so_ long getting ready-"

Mary cut her off. "I find it infinitely preferable to be late, and well dressed, than on time, nay, even _early_ , and an embarrassment to rich young women everywhere." She smiled, and in her expression was something which tempted even the most hard hearted to forgive any transgression.

Edmund cleared his throat and stood up. "Miss Crawford. Mr Crawford," he said, bowing to both of them in turn. "A pleasure to meet you both. I am Edmund Bertram. May I present my mother Lady Bertram, my aunt Mrs Norris, my sisters Miss Maria Bertram and Miss Julia Bertram, and, of course, our cousin Miss Fanny Price."

Mary glanced at Henry, to see if she could glean any expression from his countenance. Nothing. She smiled again, more subdued this time. "It is a pleasure to meet you all." Her eyes rested on Fanny.

Something about the way Mary was looking at her unnerved Fanny. She shifted uncomfortably.

"Fanny!" Mrs Norris snapped again. She smiled apologetically at their guests. "You must excuse Miss Price; she is but a poor dependant, tragically uneducated until we brought her here, eight years ago. Please," she gestured to the chairs, "will not you sit? There is some time yet until the food will be prepared."

Mary graciously seated herself, as did her brother. All the while, her eyes remained fixed on Fanny, who was doing her best to avoid staring back.

Throughout the conversation, throughout dinner and the time after it, neither spoke to the other, but every so often, Fanny would give into temptation and stare back. There was something compelling in Mary's eyes. They seemed to sparkle at some amusement unknown to any but herself, and, perhaps, someone else too, if only they would draw closer.

Fanny looked away, blushing.

"Are you quite pleased, Henry?" Mary asked on their way back to the parsonage. They walked far ahead of Doctor and Mrs Grant; the two of them walked far slower due to the good doctor's unfortunate affliction of gout, and in fact wouldn't have walked at all if it hadn't been suggested in some quarter due to the pleasantness of the evening.

"Oh, yes, quite pleased," Henry affirmed. "With Maria and Julia both. In fact, I found the company so pleasing that I have been considering extending my visit."

"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow. "And what about dear Miss Fanny Price?"

He laughed. "You noticed that, did you?"

"You seem to think," she shot back, "that I am somehow oblivious of all about you. I cannot think why that is, since I usually find myself knowing you better than you know yourself."

"I suppose that I have never put much effort into hiding it," Henry said flippantly. He was silent for a moment. "I have decided," he said eventually, "that I should rather like to have some fun with Miss Price. She seems awfully boring. And who better to make her more…interesting than Mr Henry Crawford? I am sure a girl of her standing will fall at least slightly in love with someone who shows that she is his "soulmate"." He laughed.

Mary said nothing. Henry was foolish to think he would be safe from love forever, especially if he chose to flirt so blatantly with his soulmate.

Now, what about her own connection to Fanny Price? Mary rubbed absentmindedly at her left wrist. It could, she supposed, be rather diverting to fall in love.

* * *

"I am disappointed in you, Fanny," Edmund said solemnly, as they sat, secluded, in the old East Room Fanny had made her own. "I would have thought you to be more keen to befriend Mary Crawford."

"I am afraid that I am much too shy for that," Fanny said quietly.

"Well, in that case, I shall organise it so that the two of you spend some time together," Edmund declared. "It was no doubt the amount of people in the room that made it difficult for you." Fanny found that she couldn't disagree. A part of her still hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with Mary, that she didn't even _have_ the capacity to love a woman in that way. But she couldn't bring herself to believe it, not quite, when the way Mary had looked at her still rested on her mind.


	2. Chapter 2

It did not take long for Tom Bertram to return to Mansfield Park following the Crawfords establishing themselves at the parsonage, and even less time after that for Mary to find herself walking out with him and his younger brother. Usually, she would have been overjoyed at such an opportunity to begin a flirtation with an eldest son, but in this case her curiosity was piqued by Fanny; rather than flirt, she spent the whole walk quizzing the two brothers on their dependant cousin.

It came to very little. Edmund perhaps knew more about her than his brother, but Tom would more often than not change the subject before Mary could get more than a small amount of information. There was in particular a small tangent about what it meant for a young woman to be 'out' that Mary found quite aggravating - it took such a long time to figure out that that there was very little time to ask anything more. All she knew by the end of it was this: that Fanny was just turned eighteen, that she was not, in fact, out, and that - well, there wasn't much else. Mary returned home frustrated, and more curious than ever about her soulmate.

Some time after, some information about Fanny did come to light - at one of the myriad of dinners those at the parsonage were invited to. Tom had left again; Mary could not truthfully say that she missed him, predisposed as she had thought herself towards him before they had met.

At that particular dinner she learned, in the midst of conversation, that Fanny had a brother, very dear to her, at sea. The first hint came after Mary made a dismissive comment about the ability of brothers to write: Fanny coloured visibly. But the curious reaction went unexplained; Edmund was far too involved with Mary to notice it, and Fanny offered up no remark that would draw notice to it - she was still strangely silent in Miss Crawford's presence. Somehow or other the conversation turned to the Admiralty, and Mary, still feeling the fresh bitterness of her eviction from her uncle's house, made a joke - perhaps in bad taste, it is true, but ultimately harmless! Yet Fanny did not seem to think so - she turned pale and looked almost as though she were about to cry. It was only then that Edmund noticed, and chose to tell Mary that she had a brother in the Navy. There was a note of disapproval in his tone - it was clear that in this matter his opinion aligned with Fanny's.

If Mary had been a woman from a significantly lower strata of life, less brought up to politeness, she would have probably said something very rude at that moment. As it was, she prided herself on her lack of reaction, and soon the conversation of the room had shifted to plans for a trip to Sotherton, the estate of Maria's fiancé.

As for Fanny's side, she was, in a strange way, grateful for a comment in such poor taste; it gave her motivation to dislike Mary, and she clung to it, not as a drowning sailor would to a piece of driftwood, but as someone wishing to harm themselves might grasp the blade of a knife, even as blood begins to show on their hand.

* * *

Not long after this debacle, there came a time when Mary showed interest in learning how to ride. Conveniently, Edmund Bertram just so happened to have a spare horse, of exactly the kind that would suit a young lady such as Miss Crawford. Far less convenient was the fact that this horse was the one that Edmund had lent to his cousin Fanny on a permanent basis, after her old one had died, with the reasoning that riding each day would be beneficial to her health. Of course, Mary was not to know this, which excused her somewhat - but she would have likely not minded too much about it even if she had. Edmund may not have been a first son, or her soulmate, but he was pleasing enough company to spend a morning with, and learning to ride was so very exhilarating. But for poor Fanny Price, who so often struggled to speak up for herself, the entire ordeal seemed to be one of the worst in her life.

* * *

"Tell me about Miss Price," Mary said, on the second day of her riding lessons. They had not been accompanied by anyone - of note, that is, who could join in with their conversation - and she had decided to make another attempt at learning something of Fanny. "How long has she resided here?"

Edmund hesitated. He was, he admitted quietly to himself, slightly disappointed that Mary's first question was about his cousin. Of course, he was eager for the two to be friends, but, well…the Crawfords seemed to have a magic about them, something that even Edmund, with all his seriousness, wasn't immune to. Mary was a beautiful, charming young lady, and he was already finding that he often eagerly forgave faults in her that he would just as quickly condemn in any other person.

"Fanny has been here for eight years," he told Mary. "Since she was ten. Mrs Price - Lady Bertram's sister - found that she could not handle so many children, poor as she was, and my father and Mrs Norris thought up a scheme whereby they offered to alleviate her troubles by taking one of them in."

"She seems a respectable young lady," Mary commented. "Your family has raised her well."

"Thank you, Miss Crawford. I have made efforts to shape her mind to the best of my ability."

"Oh?" Mary replied. "Are you sure she would not rather prefer some variety of opinions to draw her own from?"

Edmund was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Fanny has never found issue with it."

"No," Mary said. "She does not seem the type of young lady who would."

They remained quiet for a long time afterwards.

"I did invite Fanny to spend the day with us," Edmund said eventually, "but she declined. She said she did not want to cause us trouble."

Mary smiled graciously. "It would have been no trouble at all."

"Oh, no, she quite insisted," Edmund replied. Something in the way he said it made Mary think that perhaps he wasn't too disappointed that he could be with her uninterrupted by his cousin. "Although I do feel slightly guilty. This is the horse she usually rides, you know."

Mary had a sudden urge to curse, using one of the many words she'd picked up by spending too much time in the same house as old sailors that didn't much care what young ladies learned from them. "Is that so?" she said in her best impression of a completely detached person. "Why, Mr Bertram, you should have insisted she join us; we could have taken turns riding. I would not like to deprive her of such a joy."

Edmund looked slightly embarrassed about his transgression. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but by that point, they'd reached the house, and Mary practically leapt off the horse in her eagerness to find Fanny.

It wasn't, of course that she felt any sort of remorse for her actions towards Fanny. Oh no. But if she was going to befriend her soulmate then she should certainly be on her good side.

* * *

Fanny was in the drawing room with her Aunt Bertram when Mary burst in, riding hat askew and hair tumbling out of its bun. They stared at each other for a brief moment (for Fanny, it felt far longer). Then Mary recovered herself enough to speak.

"I do apologise for intruding on you like this," she said, almost calmly. Surprising, really, given the vigour with which she had originally entered. "But I have just been informed that the horse most graciously lent to me by Mr Bertram is, in fact, the one that Miss Price usually uses."

"You need not trouble yourself," Fanny said as she stared at her lap. The sleeve of her dress hitched up slightly and she caught a glimpse of Mary's name. She hurriedly pulled it down again.

"Indeed, Miss Price, I do trouble myself," Mary said emphatically - almost sincerely. "For I could not forgive myself if I deprived you of your daily exercise." An idea struck her and she smiled good-naturedly. "Perhaps tomorrow we should ride out together; you shall get your exercise, and I my practice."

"Oh, no, really, I could not -"

"I insist, Miss Price! I am afraid that I am really abominably selfish; I want to keep you all to myself tomorrow. And, of course, if it is the matter of horses that is causing you trouble, there is no need to worry, for I shall simply borrow another."

Fanny began to panic. She well knew the risk of becoming close to Miss Crawford, but to refuse? The idea of possibly insulting someone Edmund clearly already held so high in his regard terrified her.

"Of course," she said reluctantly. "I should hate to disappoint you, Miss Crawford."

Mary smiled, either unaware or uncaring of Fanny's unwillingness. "Excellent! I shall inform Mr Bertram."

She left the room again, almost as quickly as she had originally arrived. Fanny stared after her, her heart sinking slowly in her chest. She almost jumped when Lady Bertram began to speak.

"I suppose," she said sadly, "that I shall have to do without you for some time tomorrow, Fanny."

* * *

"I am afraid," Edmund said at breakfast the next morning, "that I cannot accompany you and Miss Crawford today, Fanny. I have some business I must attend to."

Fanny suddenly didn't feel quite as hungry as she had a few moments ago. "Are you sure it cannot wait, cousin?"

"Now, Fanny, you cannot take your cousin away from his work just from a desire to ride with him," Lady Bertram said, and Fanny realised with a sinking feeling that she was right.

"Besides," Edmund said apologetically, "it really cannot wait."

"Then perhaps I -"

"I insist that you ride today, Fanny; you have already promised Miss Crawford the pleasure of your company, and that you have not had your exercise in a few days, you do look concerningly pale." He reached over to place his hand on hers, and Fanny felt a sudden swelling of guilt in her chest. "Please, Fanny. You enjoy riding so much. Even if I am not there, I am sure that Miss Crawford will be adequate company."

Fanny looked at Edmund's hopeful face. It was clear how dearly he desired the two of them to be friends, otherwise he would not have given up an opportunity for riding with Miss Crawford for the sake of some unspecified 'business'. And yet… Her fear of Mary and her devotion to Edmund grappled with each other in her mind.

"Of course, Edmund," she said with a forced smile. "I shall do as you wish."

He frowned, seemingly sensing her reluctance - it confused him, she could see that much; who wouldn't want to spend time in Mary Crawford's company? - but ultimately his desire to see her and Mary friends won over.

"Excellent," he said.

* * *

It was a time somewhere between early morning and midday - perhaps about ten or eleven o'clock - when they rode out together. The sun shone behind the both of them and cast shadows on the short grass. Mary, Fanny noted, was a confident rider, even though she had only begun to learn a few days previously. She had a self-assurance about her that Fanny would not even dare dream of attaining; her laugh, her speech, her dark beauty all added to it to make her totally enthralling.

Fanny inhaled sharply and tried to concentrate on riding, but Miss Crawford seemed adamant that they should talk.

"It is a lovely day today, is it not, Miss Price?" she said.

"Yes, I believe it is," Fanny said, and they lapsed into quiet again. Part of her felt guilty for making such an effort to stay distant from Mary, but she told herself that it was for the best; to fall in love with a woman - especially a woman so far superior to her in class - was unthinkable.

"What is your opinion on slavery, Miss Price?" Mary asked suddenly. Something must have crossed her mind to ask such a question - perhaps a belief that a serious topic would draw Fanny out more than a frivolous one. She caught the shocked look on Fanny's face and laughed. "Ah, well, you must not feel obligated to answer that. I am afraid it is rather too serious a question for a mid -morning ride."

"No, no, it is -" Fanny stammered. "I mean to say, I…I do not really have an opinion on slavery." This was probably a lie, but she certainly did not have an opinion that she would be fully willing to share with a stranger.

Mary stared at her for a moment, then laughed again. "Do not have an opinion? On slavery? Come, Miss Price, everybody has an opinion on slavery. Although often they do not dare to speak it. Is that the case here?"

Fanny looked away. "It is not one of the subjects that Edmund and I have discussed."

"Of course. I understand; it is not a proper thing to speak of in polite society, even when your entire livelihood is based off of it." She lifted a hand off the reins to gesture around them. The horse lurched slightly and she had to grab the rein quickly again. "But surely you have opinions formed independent from your cousin?"

Fanny remained quiet. Perhaps she did, buried back in her mind, but she always felt an immense guilt at expressing them. For, if Edmund did not believe it, or did not speak of it, then surely she was wrong.

By now they had reached the furthest point of the park. Mary reined in her horse and waited expectantly for Fanny to do the same. "We could rest here for a moment," she suggested, although from Mary it really sounded more like a demand. "The view is marvellous, and you do look a little flushed, Miss Price."

They dismounted, and Mary promptly flopped down onto the grass near the horses. Fanny hesitated.

"Well?" Mary said expectantly.

"I would not wish to dirty my dress."

Mary smiled, and wit sparkled in her eyes. "You take life altogether far too seriously, Miss Price," she said. "Come now, sitting on the grass for a few moments will not irreparably damage your outfit." She patted the space beside her.

Fanny paused for thought; it was true that it was a lovely day, that the sun would have most likely dried the dew of the morning off of the grass. And yet…

Something glinted mischievously in Mary's eyes. "Miss Price, if you are really so adverse to sitting on grass, then I suppose the only thing I can suggest is to sit in my lap, like a child. We cannot leave you standing like that, not when you are so delicate." She stretched out her legs and smiled. Fanny stuttered for a moment, then decided suddenly that perhaps the grass wasn't so dirty as to entirely ruin her dress. Carefully, cautiously, she sat herself down next to Miss Crawford.

"There," Mary said brightly, "now, Miss Price, you cannot help but admit that it is far more comfortable down here."

Fanny said nothing. She looked at the trees that bordered the park, the house off in the distance, the grass at her feet. What she didn't do was look at Mary.

"I am beginning to get the distinct impression that you do not like me, Miss Price," Mary said.

Fanny started. To be thought of as rude, as disliking somebody, was unbearable to her. The insult of a few days ago was almost forgotten in her distress. "Oh no! I apologise for my conduct, Miss Crawford, if it has at all made you feel unwelcome; I am unused to strangers."

"Do you not ever leave Mansfield?"

"No." Fanny bit her lip. "Not since I first arrived here, eight years ago."

"Well, then." Mary said. "We shall have to rectify that as soon as we are able. Where would you like to go? Somewhere far away, such as the Orient?"

Fanny shook her head, but a grateful smile tugged at her lips. "I would not want to be so far from home, Miss Crawford. Perhaps a few miles away at most. But I thank you for such a kind offer."

Mary studied her carefully. "If I may ask, Miss Price, from whence do your forebears hail?"

"I believe that my grandfather -my father's father, that is - came on a ship from India. But that is all I can tell you; our family does not usually discuss it."

"I see." Mary lay back in the grass and sighed. "I wonder that one such as Sir Thomas would be willing to take in the offspring of an Indian man and a white woman."

"It would not have been something he would consider," Fanny said, with that forced self assuredness in her voice that only ever came from being unsure. "My uncle is a good man; he would not have been deterred by race if he could do a good deed."

"A good man does not profit off of slave labour!" Mary snapped. Fanny stared at her, and after a moment she made an attempt to smile. "My apologies. It is a beautiful day; let us enjoy that in each other's company and forget all this seriousness."

"Do you ever wish to travel to India, Miss Price?" she asked after a long silence.

"It is a long journey, and I love England far too much to leave it for the country of a man I never knew." She hesitated, as though she was on the cusp of saying something. "Would you ever wish to travel to Africa, Miss Crawford?"

Mary smiled at the blue sky. "I'm afraid that Africa is rather too big a continent to visit it all. And my ancestor who arrived in England - who knows how long ago it was - was an escaped slave; my brother and I have not the slightest clue of the country of our ancestors." She got to her feet. "I suppose we should be heading back to the house." She extended her hand to help Fanny up. "We have been sitting here for a far longer time than is reasonable." Fanny took her hand and was pulled up, but she stumbled forward slightly, into Mary's arms. Mary stepped backwards a bit in shock, but held Fanny firmly in her arms and soon they had managed to balance themselves. Fanny coughed nervously, and Mary let go of her.

For a while after that, they didn't talk, only rode together silently towards the house.

Mary was becoming frustrated with the long silences that had filled their day. She was not the sort of person inclined to patience; she had foolishly assumed that it would be far more simple to win over Fanny Price than it was turning out to be. And rather than wondering - even idly - whether it was something in her own behaviour that was the cause of this, she said something carefully calculated to shock Fanny.

"I believe that my brother has taken quite an interest in you, Miss Price."

Had Fanny not been so secured in her saddle, she would have fallen off her horse in shock. "You must be mistaken, Miss Crawford; your brother and I have barely spoken."

"Hmm." Mary thought for a while. Perhaps she wasn't feeling quite that vindictive today. "Well, I shall warn you now: I love Henry dearly, but he has taken rather too much of his behaviour from our uncle."

"I wonder that you so easily criticise your family, Miss Crawford."

"I am sure you do. After all, you have never met my uncle." She smiled in the way she had whenever she said something she deemed too serious. "I suppose I have piqued your curiosity now."

"Indeed, Miss Crawford, not at all."

"Not at all? My, my - do you not have any interest in things outside of your own knowledge?"

Fanny was silent for a long time, and again Mary felt a surge of frustration. For someone to show reluctance to speak to her was unheard of.

"When I first arrived at Mansfield Park," Fanny said at last, "I knew very little, compared to my cousins. They used to laugh at me if I showed my lack of knowledge…and to be sure, they would perhaps do the same now. In my experience, Miss Crawford, asking questions either displays a regrettable ignorance, or shows an impolite amount of interest in others' affairs." She blushed suddenly, as though she had only now realised what words spilled from her mouth. "I-I apologise, Miss Crawford. I did not mean to-"

"Do not trouble yourself," Mary said, waving her off. "I suppose we are all the products of our experiences, at least to an extent. I myself have evolved an unfortunate distaste for the navy." She smiled wryly. "As no doubt you could tell from the last time our families dined together."

"Oh, but Miss Crawford!" Fanny exclaimed, some life trickling into her features. "We all have the ability to survive our circumstances in order to become our best selves!"

"Did Mr Bertram teach you that?" Mary said laughingly. "Or have I witnessed the rare appearance of an opinion you have formed apart from him?"

"It is something I believe with all my heart, Miss Crawford." Her vigour was subdued now, but Mary could still feel the force behind her words. In truth, it surprised her. "With it, I am left with the hope that some day I will be worth more than a poor cousin to the Bertrams, although I do not deserve it."

To her shock, Mary felt a swelling of pity for the girl. She was about to speak, but Fanny continued, eager to hurry past what was such a painful topic. "And truly, I cannot agree with nor excuse your dislike of our navy. There are brave men on those ships, who work hard to defend England!" As she spoke, she sounded almost forceful. In the moment, it was quite magical, seeing the usually timid Miss Price lit up in something approaching anger.

"Your brother is a sailor, is he not?" Mary asked, unfazed. "I recall Edmund mentioning something to that effect."

"Oh! Yes." Fanny was back to her normal self as quickly as she had changed. She smiled bashfully. "William. He is a midshipman!" She seemed almost to emanate pride.

Mary thought for a moment. "Then perhaps I shall rethink my position on the navy, since the brother of the lovely Miss Fanny Price is a midshipman." She smiled her most charming smile. "I doubt that anyone so dear to you could possibly be villainous, when you are so good yourself." Then, after another pause: "If my comments on the subject have offended you in any way, I regret it."

Fanny blushed. "I thank you Miss Crawford." A sudden realisation seemed to overtake her. "Ah, but we are at the stables!" She quickly dismounted and lead her horse into its stall. Before Mary had a chance to address her again, she was hurrying back to the house.

"Perhaps we shall speak again tomorrow," Mary called after her, dismounting herself.

Fanny turned back and flashed the briefest of smiles. "Perhaps!"

* * *

But, alas, the moment never came; from then on, every time Mary made an attempt to speak to Fanny was interrupted - she would get a sudden panicked look (poorly disguised) on her face, stammer out an excuse, and leave at the next opportunity. Even Mary, usually so convinced of her own appeal, began to feel that perhaps she was doing something wrong. Surely Miss Price did not dislike her so much as to disregard politeness so entirely? The truth was far from what Mary assumed: on the day of their ride, Fanny had been overcome with the realisation that she was spending her day with someone she'd sworn to avoid - not just spending time with, but enjoying the company of Mary Crawford. Since then, she had rather overcompensated, fleeing from conversations with Mary as soon as she properly recognised what was happening, and chiding herself for allowing Mary to begin speaking to her in the first place. This was not to be forever, though, as soon the trip to Mr Rushworth's home of Sotherton was fully settled upon, and as Edmund had already argued for Fanny accompanying them, she could not refuse, not even for fear of Mary.

To her relief, when the day actually came, Henry was eager for her to sit next to him on the barouche-box, and, with the only alternative being a ride in the carriage with Mary, she was happy to accept.

It was thankfully a fine August day, and the only thing that could have possibly provided discomfort on top of the barouche-box was a slight breeze. Fanny found herself enraptured with the soon unfamiliar countryside, and Henry found his attempts at conversation thwarted by the beauty that their surroundings contained. Instead, he contented himself with watching the road, allowing himself an occasional glance at his companion. Perhaps he would request she be near him when they reached Sotherton, as well. Yes, that was it! There was not a woman in England who would not be at least slightly in love with him by the end of even an hour of them walking together. And, once she was prepared to become smitten, he would reveal to her the mark on his wrist and declare his undying love for her. Of course, then he would break her heart (perhaps by flirting with one of the two Bertram girls; they both seemed interested enough in him, and particularly insulted at his choosing their poor cousin as his companion), but it would do one such as Fanny Price good to be hurt slightly in love.

* * *

They arrived at Sotherton, they explored the insides of the house and, eventually, they set out for a walk in the gardens. Along the way, there were no real hiccups, except for the moment when Mary found that Edmund was to be a clergyman; a slightly awkward point, since she had just been in the midst of insulting the church. She sighed, made a few more disparaging remarks about the profession, lamented what was no doubt a loss to many young women who would otherwise have shown an interest in him, and moved on. After all, she had no intention of marrying him, despite the extra attention he was beginning to pay her.

Henry, regrettably, was unable to begin his plan to make Fanny fall in love with him; his attention was regularly drawn away from her by either Julia or Mr Rushworth, in his desire to ask Mr Crawford his opinion. Maria was not so foolish as to show affection to Henry whilst they wandered the house of her husband-to-be, but even between two people he found little time to talk with Fanny. She seemed, for her part, content to take in her surroundings in a state of silent, wide-eyed awe. He had hoped for a chance during the tour of the grounds, but she had quickly - and firmly - attached herself to Mary and Edmund, who had soon gone on ahead of the others. Silently, Henry cursed his bad luck and turned his charm to the others of their party. Fanny Price was all well and good, but she could wait; he had no intention of leaving Mansfield Park any time soon.

Mary spent most of their walk complaining incessantly about the heat - indeed, it was not too awful, but she had no idea of what else to talk about, and complaining seemed as good a thing to fill the silence that existed between them all as any. And besides, the only other topic she could think of, a topic which she had so quickly dropped when it had come up before, was her newly discovered knowledge of Edmund's intention to join the clergy, and she did not intend to show the full extent of her dislike in front of Fanny; her cousin was dear to her, and Mary was sure that she would not appreciate Mary insulting his chosen profession so - any more than she had already, that is. It was strange indeed for Mary to be so concerned of another's opinion of her, but she was becoming greatly intrigued by Fanny Price, and felt a great unwillingness to even risk hurting her.

Of course, that unwillingness only went so far as her own thoughtless nature allowed it to, and soon a rather heated discussion between herself and Edmund on the dimensions of the wood lead them both to abandon Fanny on a bench by a locked gate in order to investigate. By all appearances, it would not have been too selfish, if indeed they had not found another gate to go through, or Fanny had been less inclined to loneliness. But Mary was not to think of these things as she began to walk with Edmund under the green trees, for he was amusing enough in his way, even if he was really far too serious sometimes, and a second son, and wanted to - to become a clergyman. Still, she supposed if she had a care to she could fix two of the three in short enough time. And she found that she could tolerate his glaring flaws for a short while, when the weather was as good as it had been, and she was in a good mood, and he did not speak overly about things which she took no enjoyment from.

"Now that you are aware of my chosen profession, has your opinion of it changed at all, Miss Crawford?" Edmund asked, politely enough, but in such a way that Mary could tell he was either hoping that she had miraculously changed her mind in the last hour, or pretending that he hadn't heard her previous comments in some pathetic attempt at denial.

"I cannot say that I entirely approve of the clergy," she replied flippantly, hoping he would change the subject. "My own experience of it gives me the impression that it is made entirely of old men who drink rather too much and have but one interesting sermon to recite between them."

He seemed shocked, as though he had actually expected her to say something encouraging to him. Did he really think that she would have actually adopted a different opinion entirely than that she had expressed earlier, solely because he was involved? "Perhaps I could change your mind," he said, but he sounded unconvinced. Mary almost felt sorry for Edmund; it seemed he had rested some good amount of hope on her being accepting, at least in his case.

"My opinion is not as easily altered as you seem to think it," she said, and derived no small pleasure from seeing the way he floundered. "Nor is there much chance of it changing with time. I believe that you should always chase a path that pays well. But I am not the one here who is to be a clergyman."

"You do not mind?"

"I would mind tremendously if I were your wife, or your fiancée, but I am not."

Edmund blushed slightly. "Q-quite." He frowned. "This part of the park is far larger than I expected it to be." He checked his watch. "We have been walking for this past half hour at least."

Perhaps if Mary had been more inclined to think of others, her mind would have wandered back, at this moment, to poor Miss Price, sitting alone on a bench, and she would have felt a pang of guilt. But as it was, she only felt this moment of realisation when she - purely coincidentally - caught a glimpse of the gradually fading name of Fanny Price on her wrist as her sleeve rode up slightly. Mary quickly covered up the name again, and mentally cursed herself. Truthfully, when she had first decided to spend time with Fanny, it had simply been a form of amusement; but now she felt a sort of desperation to not lose the chance of a soulmate. For she had heard of those people who had made such an awful mistake that one - or more - of their names disappeared from their wrists forever.

"Yes, indeed; we have been walking a long time," she said eventually. "Perhaps we should return to where your cousin rests."

Edmund, always eager to spend more time with the woman who was beginning to affect his heart so greatly, began to disagree. But then he, too, remembered Fanny's nature - how distressed she would be! - and felt his own remorse.

"Yes," he said. "Fanny will begin to worry, I fear - we should hasten our return for her sake."

* * *

Fanny was, if such an emotion could be ascribed to one such as Fanny Price, beginning to feel impatient. Or perhaps not so much impatient as nervous; she was beginning to fear that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left her altogether. Indeed, everyone else had: first Maria and Mr Crawford (he practically begging her to join them, but no, she simply must wait for the others, and his curiosity of what was beyond the gate - and, in truth, the opportunity that presented itself to flirt with such an attractively unavailable woman as Maria - overpowered his desire to win Miss Price); then Julia, so irritable that Fanny had almost been grateful when she had followed her sister and Henry; then eventually Mr Rushworth, with the key to the gate that his fiancée had requested so insistently. All had been far more eager to leave her than remain to keep her company. And yet, just as Mr Rushworth left, just as these doubting thoughts began to find their place in her mind, she heard the sound of nearby running. In a moment, Mary appeared, panting, and behind her Edmund, who looked almost ready to fall over.

"Miss Price," Mary said once she had regained her breath, "I must apologise for my thoughtlessness. Neither of us expected our walk to take so long (and we did, I am afraid, get rather side-tracked once we discovered a gate leading to another part of the park), nor, I shudder to admit, did we think of you as much as we should have. Will you forgive this indiscretion?"

Edmund made to lean on the gate for support, and almost lost his balance as it swung inwards. "I hope that you shall forgive me as well, Fanny. I did not take your feelings into consideration. That was very wrong of me indeed."

Fanny was unable to reply for a while, so taken aback by the very fact that they apologised. Eventually she said, "Thank you. You…both of you…treat me rather better than I deserve."

Mary shook her head with a smile. "On the contrary; you deserve rather better than the two of us. But I suppose you must make do with what little you have." A brief wind caused the gate to swing again, and Edmund, already precarious, crashed to the ground. Mary was reduced to laughter.

"Miss Crawford!" Fanny said, scandalized. "You must not take such pleasure in others' misfortunes!"

Mary made a valiant attempt to quiet herself as Edmund stood up and brushed himself off. "I apologise, Miss Price. I shall endeavour not to laugh about this again."

Fanny stood up, only slightly mollified. "You are very kind to me, Miss Crawford, I must confess, but I hardly see that same kindness expressed to others." The idea that someone could not show kindness to everyone seemed to upset her slightly.

"Very well," Mary said, taking Fanny's arm and offering her other one to Edmund, "I shall transform myself for your sake."

This seemed to distress Fanny even more. "Oh no, Miss Crawford! It is of the utmost importance to be kind for its own sake!"

Mary leaned in conspiratorially. "Then I shall become a good, kind person, and I shall enjoy it, not only because you wish it, but because it will amuse me to show kindness. I am, at heart, a very selfish person, and so to think of myself in these matters is something I cannot help. But yes, it does sound rather an interesting thing to try. Now," she leant away from Fanny again, "where have the rest of our merry party got to?"

"They went through the gate."

"Ah, then we shall have no hope of finding them. What do you suggest, Mr Bertram?"

"I believe that we should return to the house, Miss Crawford. Aunt Norris and Mrs Rushworth will likely be there, since they have not set out already, and it is where the others will go in their own time."

Both Mary and Fanny believed this to be an excellent idea, and said as such (Fanny quieter and less eloquent than Mary, but still audible). "It is good that we three will be alone," Mary declared as they began to walk, "for I can detail my many, many ideas for being a better person to Miss Price without interruption, and Mr Bertram, being almost a clergyman of the highest order, can provide me with suggestions of his own."

Edmund smiled. "May I first suggest that you cease insulting the professions of others?"

Fanny nodded gravely. "Thus far, Miss Crawford, you have stated your low opinions of the clergy - and the navy, before you were aware of my brother's position in it."

"Am I to be so attacked?" Mary asked with faux-indignation. "Very well; I will attempt to improve my opinions of the navy and the clergy, since it so pleases my two dear friends. However, I am concerned at the quickness of your reply - do you already have a list that I must complete every point of before I am considered an angel such as my companions?"

"Indeed I do," Edmund said solemnly. "I keep it hidden at the back of my writing desk, and every time you commit some wrongness or other I reach for my pen and ink well."

Mary and Fanny stared at him in amazement. He started laughing. "Am I really so usually serious that you cannot tell when I jest?"

Mary shook her head, matching his solemnity with her own. "I confess that I have not seen you smile once in all my time with you. Have you ever seen your good cousin smile, Miss Price?"

"Well, actually -" Fanny caught Mary's expression, twinkling with mirth. "Oh! No, I have not, Miss Crawford." She hesitated, then continued. "Why, I was beginning to believe him struck by an illness of the face." Her uncharacteristic risk was gratified in Edmund and Mary's laughing faces. Something about it caused her heart to soar, and she began to laugh with them.

"We really should not make such fun of Mr Bertram's suffering," Mary said through spurts of giggling.

"Indeed you should not!" Edmund exclaimed. He did his best to sound serious, but his voice came out as almost a squeak. "I have been unable to smile for years; no doctors have been able to help me. It is a great family tragedy." This fact was slightly belied by the fact that at that moment he was hiding a smile that was very wide indeed.

* * *

For the rest of the walk, they talked and joked, and by the time the house was in sight, Fanny was in a much better mood then she could remember ever having been in before.

"We must quiet ourselves," Edmund hissed. "Aunt Norris would not approve."

"Of course," Mary said. "Your Aunt Norris abhors fun of any kind."

And although it was entirely terrible to insult a respectable relative, they were reduced to giggling yet again. When they reached the steps to the house, they had only just restrained themselves. Mrs Norris eyed them suspiciously. Eventually, her eyes rested on Fanny.

"You seem very flushed, Fanny," she said sharply. "It cannot be good for your health - would not you have rather stayed at Mansfield?" Her eyes glittered as though she was about to gain final victory in a long battle.

It was Miss Crawford who stepped in; Edmund was too slow by just a moment, and he quieted himself to let her speak. "Miss Price has gained a great deal of enjoyment from this day, Mrs Norris. I am sorry if it seems otherwise, but that is the simple truth."

Mrs Norris looked shocked, and Fanny and Edmund both whispered quick thank yous to Mary. "It seems you are already becoming a good, kind person, Miss Crawford," Edmund murmured. His eyes brightened at the idea.

The rest of their party arrived soon after. They seemed rather out of sorts, silent and sullen. Fortunately, nothing happened to retrospectively spoil the day's enjoyment. Henry even retained enough of his politeness to offer Fanny a place next to him again. This time, however, he was refused; Fanny chose instead to sit with Mary, inside. They exchanged no words on the way back, but it was a comfortable, familiar silence, filled with memories of the walk back to the house.

(Henry was slightly put out by Fanny's refusal of his offer, but found he did not mind nearly as much when Maria Bertram decided to join him instead.)


	3. Chapter 3

Soon after their excursion to Sotherton, news arrived of Sir Thomas. He planned to return home that November, his business in Antigua being all but concluded. This affected all present as much as was to be expected; Mrs Norris and his wife were both overjoyed; Edmund was glad that he would see his father again; Julia's feelings were more lukewarm; Maria positively dreaded seeing her father again, for he brought with him the prospect of her marriage. Fanny felt great guilt at being unable to celebrate along with Edmund, but she was unable to suppress her fear of Sir Thomas, and her worried feeling was exacerbated by the knowledge of Mary's opinion of him. _A good man does not profit off of slave labour!_ The words still seemed to echo in her ears. Concern for - and perhaps a bit of curiosity about - Mary's feelings on the matter began to blossom within her, and with it came the side effect that Fanny paid closer attention to Miss Crawford. But Mary was all smiles; no hint of her opinion broke through, and she in fact declared her curiosity to see the man more than once. During one of these admissions, she happened to glance in Fanny's direction and caught her steady gaze. Something about the look, a feeling that Miss Price was seeing through her, caused her to shift uncomfortably, and break off in the middle of her sentence. She stared back for a moment, then, distracted by the others asking her to continue, looked away. By the time she turned her eyes upon Fanny again, she was no longer watching her. After that moment, Mary began to avoid Fanny.

"I notice that Mary has not spoken to you for more than a moment since soon after my father's imminent return was announced," Edmund noted one evening as he and Fanny stood by a window that opened into the cool outdoors.

"Yes," Fanny said sadly. She found she was unable even to admire the stars tonight, with that knowledge so weighing on her. "I wonder whether I have somehow insulted her."

"Nonsense, Fanny! Why, she has probably taken a fancy to someone else for a moment. Young women are not always so constant in their friendships as you are. She will be back by your side soon enough."

"I hope so, Edmund," Fanny said. "I must confess that I miss her company a great deal."

* * *

"I notice that you have been neglecting Miss Price recently," Henry remarked to his sister from further inside the room. "Does this have anything to do with the recent announcement of Sir Thomas's return? I would have assumed that you would be curious."

"I am," Mary said, watching Fanny and Edmund as they stood at the window. "Incredibly curious. But I let slip some ill-judged opinions of him to Miss Price that I now wish she was not aware of. I worry that she will be able to discern some change in my behaviour due to the announcement of his arrival. In fact, I have caught her looking at me once or twice in a way that has made me distinctly uncomfortable."

"Oh." Henry thought for a moment. "Well then, I suppose I should take advantage of that. One Crawford sibling is as good as the other."

Mary scoffed. "Please. Miss Price prefers me _infinitely_ over you. Why, every time you have endeavoured to talk to her she has avoided you!"

Henry said nothing. It was true that all previous attempts to strike up conversation with Fanny had failed, but his own high opinion of himself meant that he viewed this as little more than a brief delay. He was sure that, once he showed Fanny her name on his wrist, she would fall deeply in love with him. Besides, he was so unused to challenge when it came to winning over women; it intrigued him - he had never played such a long game before and it would be good amusement for his time at Mansfield Park, which was beginning to stretch out for far longer than he had originally planned.

* * *

Henry's newest attempt to win Fanny's heart began the next morning. Tidings had arrived, just after breakfast, of Mr Bertram's return from the races, and he offered to announce it to Fanny, who had retired to the East Room just before the Crawfords had arrived.

The East Room was cold and very near the top of the house; Henry found himself wondering that she should tolerate it so. She was sitting at the window, absentmindedly staring out at the grounds. Henry cleared his throat, and she turned around with a start.

"I have been told to announce to you that your eldest cousin is expected to return to Mansfield Park by the end of this month."

Fanny smiled. "Thank you, Mr Crawford." She hesitated. "May I ask you something, whilst you are here?"

Henry felt a surge of victory. She was beginning to show an interest in him! Soon enough, she would -

"It…it is about Miss Crawford."

Ah. Henry tried his most charming smile, but it didn't quite make its way to his face. "I wonder what you find so much more interesting about my sister that you would ask about her and not me."

For a moment Fanny looked absolutely terrified. Henry suddenly felt that he had made a mistake. "It was a joke," he said.

"I am afraid that I did not find it funny," Fanny said. Henry wondered why he had ever thought it a good idea to court someone so unbelievably _boring_. Amusement? With _her_ , when there were two very handsome girls in the house perfectly willing to be flirted with?

"Well? Ask your question," he said impatiently.

"I was wondering…does Miss Crawford no longer like me?" Her face crumpled and she started crying. Henry started cursing every decision in his life that had led to this point. "I…I fear that I have done something terribly wrong," Fanny sobbed. "She no longer speaks to me! I tried to visit her before breakfast but she would not see me!"

"I am certain it was only because of the time you chose for your visit," Henry said encouragingly, but it only made Fanny cry more.

"Oh, I should not have come so early! How inconsiderate I was."

It wasn't as if Henry was _unused_ to crying women; he had upset many himself for various reasons. But to see one in such a situation, when he was unable to escape without seriously compromising any plan he might have, was entirely new to him. An idea came to him.

"I shall inform my sister that she has upset you," he declared suddenly. Fanny stared at him in horror and he felt a surge of annoyance; he had been quite proud of that idea, but apparently nothing could please Miss Price.

"Please do not, Mr Crawford," she managed to stammer out. "I would feel terrible if Miss Crawford believed herself to be the cause of my pain."

Henry frowned. "But surely she _is_ ; after all, you are only upset at all because she is avoiding you."

Fanny's face began to crinkle again and Henry rushed to amend his statement. "Of course, if you do not wish it, I shall not tell my sister."

Fanny sniffed. "Thank you, Mr Crawford."

"Of course." Henry bowed graciously. "I am here to please." Then he made his way out of the room as quickly as possible.

* * *

"You _must_ do _something_ about this, Mary!" Henry said to his sister at the first opportunity. "Why, I was trapped alone with a sobbing Miss Price for what felt like _hours_ because you have been avoiding her!" It had been mere minutes, but Henry was inclined to exaggerate when he was inconvenienced, even in such a minor way.

Mary said nothing, only stared into the fire. They were back at the vicarage now, it finally having gotten too late to reasonably stay at Mansfield Park. Dr and Mrs Grant had faded into the background at the other end of the room.

"Mary?" Henry pushed. "Are you paying attention to me? I was stuck in a room with your latest distraction _sobbing_ at me, because of _your_ actions!"

"Do not expect to win Miss Price's heart if you speak of her in such a manner," Mary said absently. The fire crackled and spat in that strange blazing dance it had.

Henry laughed bitterly. "She shall not know of this, unless you choose to tell her. Which seems to me very unlikely, since you have refused to speak to her for weeks now!"

Mary turned away from the fire. She looked worried, which startled Henry; Mary usually made her way through life with as little care in her heart as Henry had. "Have I really hurt her so greatly, Henry?"

"Miss Price seems to me a young lady much prone to tears, but yes, I believe you have. And _I_ would rather not have to find myself comforting her again."

Mary smiled, but there was none of her usual mirth behind it. "Perhaps if you spend more time comforting her, she will fall as in love with you as you desire."

"Hmm," Henry said. "I think I shall give up my attempts to seduce Miss Price. She is rather too boring for my taste. Whatever great being is in charge of deciding soulmates is clearly playing a cruel joke in my case."

"Ah, that is because you do not take the effort to become closer to her," Mary said. "She is full of vigour, once you touch upon a subject to her liking. And she has a great gentleness to her which I confess to finding rather…well, it is not necessarily to my usual taste, but I find myself enjoying it in her." She paused. "Perhaps I shall speak to her again tomorrow.

* * *

But it was not to be; Fanny - convinced now that Mary did not like her at all - remained as much away from the others as she could, and Mary found herself unable to slip away from Edmund and the rest of the Bertram family in order to find her. On top of it all, Tom had arrived only a day behind his letter, with a new friend by the name of Mr Yates following soon after - well, soon enough that Henry had barely returned from a fortnight's trip to Norfolk that he had been forced to take, at least. If Mary had hoped that a time away would have improved Mr Bertram, she was to be greatly disappointed. She found Tom as dull as ever; perhaps more so, now that she had had more time to become close to his cousin and his brother. It was very disappointing (so she told herself) that he shook her preference for eldest sons, but she soon discovered that she did not mind so much as she had claimed.

Thomas Bertram did, however, become marginally more interesting a short time after he was introduced into life at Mansfield. Or at least, the company that he was followed by became so, promising as it did to provide some entertainment. Yates, it seemed, had lately come from another grand house where they had intended to put on a play, only for - regrettably - one of the older women to choose that time to die, making it necessary for them to stop the proceedings. He was now eager to perform at Mansfield Park, and Tom, at the very least matching the strength of that feeling, encouraged him. All seemed keen (apart from, Mary noted, Fanny and Edmund - the latter especially expressed doubt as to whether his father would approve), and after some disagreement on the subject of the play, _Lovers' Vows_ was decided upon. Mary herself was persuaded to accept the part of Amelia easily enough. Henry was chosen for Frederick, and seemed, to Mary's mind, to be rather too keen when he finally resolved a long argument between the Bertram sisters as to which of them should play the part of Agatha.

"You are, of course, aware that Agatha and Frederick are mother and son," Mary mentioned to him offhandedly one evening. "Not the ideal parts to use as cover for your flirtations."

Henry responded with a grin that annoyed Mary in a way that she couldn't quite describe. "On the contrary, Mary. If we had the parts of Anhalt and Amelia, everyone would be too much on the look-out for flirtation. But no one will suspect me to behave in that way towards the woman I practically begged - as much as I _ever_ beg - you all to let play the part of my mother." He laughed at her expression. "Why, Mary, there was a time when you would have gleefully plotted this along with me!"

"I promised Miss Price that I would be more considerate in my actions. I shall not stop you; this is no one's business but yours and Miss Bertram's. But I will warn you that it could hurt a good many people."

Henry regarded her carefully - almost seriously - for a moment. "Now, when did _you_ develop a sense of the moral? I would never have thought that Miss Price would have such a profound effect on you."

"It is not a moral feeling. That is -" Mary searched for words. "Breaking a promise is a different thing entirely." It wasn't any sort of reason, of course, but it was all she could think to say. She _liked_ Fanny, despite her quietness and the way she _would_ always be so _good_ , and she didn't want Henry ruining that. Not that she really needed any help with that, since Fanny still wouldn't talk to her.

"If you say so," Henry said doubtfully. "Personally, I see breaking promises as much the same thing as breaking hearts, and I have broken many of _those_ in my life."

"Hmm." Mary was half-distracted, thinking of the ways she could win Fanny back. She would corner her somewhere, explain with just enough apology in her voice her motives for distancing herself, and then Fanny would be sure to forgive her, because Fanny forgave everyone. All Mary needed was an opportunity.

* * *

Thankfully, it was not an opportunity long in coming. Fanny could not avoid company forever, and it just so happened that Edmund had managed to convince her to join them one evening when the topic of the play came up.

"But you simply _must_ play Anhalt, Edmund!" Maria said pleadingly. "If we do not have an Anhalt, we cannot continue the play!"

"Good," Edmund replied. "I have disapproved of the entire thing since the beginning. Perhaps now you can all leave this nonsense behind you."

" _Please_ reconsider, Edmund," Mary said. " _I_ would _very_ much appreciate it if you played Anhalt - no one else would seem quite right in the part. He is, after all, a clergyman."

She got no small satisfaction from seeing the way he softened at her words. "Well...I suggest that you choose another play. One with fewer parts."

Yates, reclining on a chair in a way that he probably thought was dramatic, leapt to his feet. "No, no," he exclaimed, "that simply will not do! The play has been chosen! The parts distributed! If you shall not play Anhalt, then -" he paused to think, cutting himself off. "Although, since we are on the topic of parts..."

Tom realised where he was going. "Of course, the cottager's wife!" He glanced at Fanny, who was staring absently into the fire. An idea seemed to steal over him. "Fanny!"

She looked up, startled from her reverie, and made to stand up with the thought that perhaps Tom wanted her to perform some chore.

"You must play the cottager's wife!"

Mary, watching Fanny carefully, noticed the sudden look of sickness that came over her as she sat abruptly down again.

"Oh no, I could never do that!"

Tom frowned. "Why ever not? It is only a few lines, nothing that will greatly exert you."

Fanny shifted uncomfortably. "I am afraid that I am not a very good actor."

Tom was getting irritable now. "None of us are, Fanny! This play is entirely an amateur affair!"

"Yes, Fanny," Mrs Norris added. "You are being very selfish, carrying on like this. It almost makes me regret our kindness in raising you as we have done."

That was what brought tears to her eyes. All she could do was shake her head and mutter her refusal. For a moment, Mary expected Edmund to do something about it, but he was clearly too shocked to act. She stood up from her chair next to Edmund. There was a pause as she hovered in the middle of the room; she looked almost like she was about to say something. But then she frowned and grabbed Fanny's hand.

"Come, Miss Price," she said coldly. "The atmosphere in this room disagrees with me." At this, she shot a none too subtle glare at Mrs Norris, and flounced out of the room, dragging Fanny with her.

* * *

The door slammed as they left the room; it echoed in the empty hall. Fanny stared at Mary in stunned silence. Finally, she managed to force a sentence from her lips.

"That was very rude, Miss Crawford."

Mary almost wanted to laugh. Just like Fanny to complain about impoliteness when she'd defended her! She shook her head. "They were trying to bully you into something that you did not want to do."

"I am sure that I deserved it, when they were all so keen to carry on with the play."

"No!" Mary searched for words, and eventually settled on a statement she wasn't sure she'd ever believed before. "Our enjoyment should not come before your feelings."

Fanny looked just as taken aback as Mary felt. She almost seemed like she was about to protest. But then she smiled. Fanny rarely smiled; perhaps she thought it would be too presumptive of the Bertrams' continued goodwill to show much happiness. In fact, of the few times Mary had seen her smile, most of them were when she had been with Edmund.

"Thank you, Miss Crawford," she said. "But I am afraid that the others must now think us terribly impolite."

Mary hadn't thought of that. Well, she _had_ , but she'd been so caught up in her anger that it hadn't seemed to matter. She frowned. "Yes, that is a problem. We cannot simply _apologise_ , not when their own actions warrant an apology more than ours. Evidently the only solution is to run away to some obscure country in order to escape the shame."

To her delight, that made Fanny laugh. "Perhaps not something quite so drastic," she said.

There was a click as the door behind them closed. Edmund stood there, looking slightly ashamed at himself.

"I have convinced Tom and my aunt not to force the matter," he said. "Fanny does not have to be in the play if she does not wish to be."

Mary smiled at him gratefully, causing him to flush slightly. She turned to Fanny. "Well, Miss Price," she said triumphantly, "it seems that we no longer have need to flee the country."

"Perhaps _now_ you should apologise, if not for defending me, then your rash behaviour," Fanny suggested, smiling slightly.

Anger flashed across Mary's face, but she quickly forced it down and responded with a smile of her own. "Very well," she gave Fanny a mock bow. "Whatever my lady commands." For some reason, Fanny felt that she wasn't entirely joking.

And so Mary did apologise, albeit with a hint of sarcasm to her tone. She and Henry left early (or at least earlier than usual) that day, likely due to the cooler atmosphere Mary had generated in the room by her actions. Fanny couldn't help but think about the entire incident. In part this was due to the reproachful looks certain members of the family kept shooting her, but - silly as the fear was - she was also worried that she had somehow offended Mary. Maybe she hadn't thanked her enough? She resolved to walk to the parsonage early the next day, to make her gratefulness clear. And perhaps out of a revived eagerness to see Mary, as well, although she didn't admit this to herself.

* * *

Mary was gazing absently out of her bedroom window when she saw Fanny hurrying towards the parsonage. It was so early that she wasn't dressed, had not even thought of breakfast; Fanny, in her nervousness, had barely slept, and left the house almost before anyone was awake. At once, Mary rushed down the stairs and threw open the door just as Fanny reached to knock. Fanny froze. Standing in the doorway was Mary, wearing nothing but a nightgown, her hair still messy and loose from sleeping. Everything seemed suddenly very out of control in her life, and despite all her intentions in coming there, all she could think of at that moment was how breathtakingly beautiful Mary looked with the early morning sun shining on her half-awake face. She gulped.

"I...came to thank you for the way that you came to my defence yesterday," she finally managed to stammer out.

Mary frowned at her. "You thanked me at the time," she said.

"Oh, but I was very much concerned that I had not thanked you enough." It sounded far sillier out in the open than it had in her head. Fanny yawned, and then blushed as though she thought that she had committed some grave social faux-pas.

"You need not have been so worried," Mary said, stepping aside to leave the doorway open. "Will not you come in?"

"Really, I _must_ be getting back to the house -" Fanny began, but Mary would not take no for an answer; she grabbed her hand and dragged her inside.

"They shall not miss you for an hour," she said as she shut the door.

"Oh but you are not even dressed!"

"I need but a few minutes. I must talk to you, Miss Price; it is of the utmost importance!" With that, Mary hurried upstairs. Fanny was left alone in the room. She sighed and hoped that whatever Mary needed to talk about wouldn't take up too much time, for she didn't share Mary's confidence that she wouldn't be punished for her absence. Mary didn't exactly quell that fear; whatever her definition of 'a few minutes' was, it certainly didn't fit Fanny's, and it was just over a quarter of an hour before she appeared downstairs again. She put her fingers to her lips as she approached her.

"We must be very quiet," she said, as though _Fanny_ were the one needing to be told. "The rest of the household is still asleep."

Fanny was beginning to wish that she was as well. She stifled a yawn and asked why Mary had risen so early in the morning.

"Usually it would be against my better judgement, but I woke up early and struggled to get back to sleep. I decided, on a whim, to look out of the window and there you were. It must have been fate, drawing my eyes to you."

"Miss Crawford, I _am_ sorry -"

"You spend far too great a deal of your time apologising, I think."

Fanny blushed. "Well...I..."

Mary grabbed her hand. "Come, let us go to my room. We are less likely to be disturbed there." She noted with some satisfaction the way Fanny's blush deepened. Once there and sat down on the bed, she took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Having just admonished you for apologising too much, I am afraid I have one of my own to make. An apology, that is. Recently, I have been avoiding you. I...convinced myself it was for the best, but I realise that it has hurt you more than anything else." Throughout this she had been avoiding meeting Fanny's eyes. Suddenly she looked up, and Fanny recognised an expression in her eyes that she'd never seen before in them, or at least not so obviously: guilt. "You remember when I told you my opinion of Sir Thomas?" she said quickly.

"Yes."

"That was why I avoided you. I am very good - excellent, if I may flatter myself - at pretending flippancy around his…his… _type of people_ , but I was worried that you, knowing my true feelings on the matter, would pick up some minute flaw in my guise." She took a deep breath. "That was all I had to say to you on the matter." Mary tried a smile; at first it faltered, but soon it caught and was as sincere as ever. "But will not you stay a while? I have so very few friends here, and I rather think inviting Edmund to my bedroom would raise rather more eyebrows than inviting you."

"Miss Crawford!"

"Oh, come now, you cannot have been so closed off from the world as to be unaware of these sorts of things - the sorts of things people would _say_ , if nothing else."

Fanny looked embarrassed. Mary took pity on her and changed the subject. "Tell me, Miss Price, what subjects do you take an interest in? You must find something to do in the hours you spend alone."

Fanny relaxed slightly, and almost allowed herself a smile. "I do not have so much free time as you seem to think, Miss Crawford. Often I help my aunts, or my cousin Edmund has want of me. Although he has been less interested in my company as of late." It wasn't an accusation, but it still hung in the air between them; both knew how preoccupied Edmund had been with Mary - and of course Mary, who enjoyed both good company and having her vanity flattered by men falling in love with her, and had found those things embodied in Fanny's cousin, did nothing but encourage him. Perhaps, if she had not already been aware that Fanny was her soulmate, she would have even entertained the idea of marrying him.

"I shall scold him for his neglect," Mary eventually declared.

"Oh no, do not trouble -"

"Nonsense! It is no trouble. We must look after you, Miss Price; you are the moral compass of our little group of people at Mansfield - or at least, you are _my_ moral compass - and I sorely doubt that we could do without you."

Fanny shook her head at this grand declaration, a smile playing at her lips despite her best attempts to remain serious. "You must look to yourself for a moral guide, Miss Crawford."

"Well," Mary smiled and drew herself closer to Fanny, "you will be shocked to hear this, very shocked indeed, but my conscience is sadly out of practice on account of my many years of depravity. May I be permitted to use you as substitute for the time being, whilst it recovers?" With that she slid her arm around Fanny's waist - an action which caused her companion to squeak. Mary took one look at Fanny's shocked face and burst out laughing. It was infectious, and soon Fanny was laughing as well, albeit in a more subdued way. It suddenly occurred to Mary that there were other people in the house still asleep who wouldn't appreciate being woken by their laughter, and she clapped her hand over Fanny's mouth (never mind that it was _Mary's_ laugh that was, in fact, louder). Fanny seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and soon their giggling ceased.

Both of them realised at the same time how close they were; Mary had one hand around Fanny's waist and another on her mouth, and their faces were mere inches from each other. Mary was almost disappointed by how quickly Fanny drew away from her.

"I do enjoy reading Shakespeare," Fanny said after taking a moment to compose herself.

"What?"

"You asked me what my interests were."

"Of course! Well, what intelligent young woman does not?" Here, Fanny opened her mouth to protest having such a compliment paid to her, but Mary continued speaking regardless. "I personally have a preference for his comedies; I cannot abide too much sadness - I would much prefer to laugh, with the knowledge that by the end all will be well. What is your preference, Miss Price?"

"I rather prefer the tragedies." Fanny sighed and looked down at her hands. "They allow me to see the good in _my_ life by contrast."

"My, we _are_ serious." Mary leaned close to Fanny and stared at her face intently. "Surely you do not need to see the undiluted misery of Shakespearian characters in order to recognise joy in your own life?"

Fanny hesitated. "It would be ungrateful for me to complain," she said, and then lapsed into silence.

Mary again drew herself close and was relieved when Fanny let her. "Do they love you?" she said, perhaps rather more sharply than she meant to, for all the angry protectiveness that had been awoken in her last night burned again.

"I am sure that they do," Fanny said, sounding anything but. "But they are all awfully busy, and do not often have time for me. They are never unkind, except for Mrs Norris, at times - when I cannot doubt that I deserve it -"

"No," Mary said, so quiet and unlike herself that Fanny stopped mid-sentence. "Miss Price, you are a far better person than I could ever hope to be - although, I confess, that is not necessarily a hard thing - and you could never deserve anything close to the way I saw them treat you last night. And if _they_ will not love you, then _I_ shall."

If Fanny had not been so desperate to ignore the tattoo on her wrist and all the concepts that surrounded it, she would have probably recognised that the emotion she felt for Miss Crawford in that moment was not at all dissimilar to that which she had often felt for Edmund. But if even a small part of her realised this, she ignored it as she thanked Mary.

Mary smiled courteously, then changed the subject to something more light-hearted, as much to take her own mind off of their serious conversation as Fanny's.

It was not long before Henry, awake and dressed and wanting to talk to his sister, made his way to her room, where he heard voices. He hovered at the threshold, unseen, and watched Mary and Fanny's conversation. He didn't bother to pay much attention to the words; he was entranced by the enthusiasm with which Fanny spoke about...well, whatever she was talking about. Perhaps she was not so boring after all. And the light shining in from the window was most becoming in the way it threaded through her hair and caused her skin to shine. In that moment, Henry had discovered that it was possible to awaken some other emotion than sheer misery in Miss Price, and from then on he became set on being the cause for it. Now that he was aware that she wasn't quite as boring as he'd thought her, the idea of breaking her heart grew more appealing to him. Henry could not abide breaking the heart of boring people, or people _he_ deemed boring; getting close enough in the first place was far too dull for him, and usually they did not react in an interesting enough way to make the hard work worth it.

Mary was the one who broke his reverie. She saw him standing in the door and called out, "Henry! What are you doing lurking there? I do hope that we did not wake you."

Henry shook his head and smiled his most charming smile. "Not at all. I did not even hear you until I drew near." He bowed to Fanny, who suddenly seemed more subdued now that someone else was in the room. "Miss Price."

"Mr Crawford," she said quietly. "I…I really should be leaving. I feel as though I have imposed upon your hospitality for far too long already today."

"Not at all," Mary said, and then, "would you like me to walk you back?" at the same time as her brother, who looked rather put out.

"If it is not too much trouble," Fanny said, addressing herself to Mary.

"No trouble at all! I have more to say to you yet, and if you are given trouble for being away so long, I will be there to defend you." Mary stood up abruptly and proffered her arm to Fanny to take. She did so hesitantly, and Mary almost dragged her up and out of the room, leaving Henry to stare after them.

* * *

"Now, Miss Price, you simply _must_ tell me your honest opinion on our performing _Lovers' Vows_ ," Mary declared once they'd left the house and were walking briskly along the lane. "You need not hide your opinions from _me_."

Fanny thought for a bit. "I have read the play, and the subject matter...Miss Crawford, if you truly want my honest opinion then I must say that I am quite shocked by it. Even then, I would perhaps not see so much harm in it if it did not require near strangers among us for the other parts. It is not...young women of my cousins' and your status do not perform in plays, _especially_ not plays of this sort. And..." she trailed off and looked worried.

"What is it?" Mary asked.

"I...I fear that Maria's motives for taking the part of Agatha are not entirely honest. But it is not for me to speculate on such matters."

"I suppose not," Mary said thoughtfully. "But between the two of us...I do not believe my brother's motivations for taking the part of Frederick are entirely honest either." She neglected to mention that she knew for certain what his motives were. "I am sure that they will come to their senses eventually."

"But what of the pain that they could cause in the meanwhile?" Fanny protested, looking earnestly at Mary.

"It will be no-one's fault but their own," Mary said dismissively. This was not a conversation she wanted to have.

"We cannot just -"

"What would you suggest that we do?" Mary said sharply. "No one will listen to _you_ , and if _I_ reveal my brother's intentions then I will be barred from here as his sister and from his heart as his accuser."

Fanny was silenced. They walked quietly for a while, the only sound their footsteps on the lane.

"I am sorry," Mary said when the lack of conversation became too much for her to bear. She was rewarded for her apology when Fanny's hesitant hand found its way to hers and squeezed it slightly. They still didn't speak, but the nature of the silence shifted slightly; it was by far more comfortable now. Mary wasn't used to this. In the circles she moved in, people always chatted away even when they weren't really saying anything. Here, she didn't feel unnerved by the silence, only restful. She decided to cherish the moment, looping her arm through Fanny's and slowing her pace until they were moving at what could barely be called a stroll. The day had advanced somewhat since Fanny had made her way to the cottage, and it was uncharacteristically warm for late September, like some last lingering vestige of summer was clinging to life. The ground was mottled from the light shining through the evergreens that lined the side of the path. Fanny let out a contented sigh.

"I love Mansfield," she said. "I do not think that I could ever bear leaving it, not for too long."

Mary glanced at her, a confused frown crumpling her forehead. "You love it so much, and yet so often I have seen you neglected and mistreated here. I do not think that _I_ could ever bear a place like that."

For a moment Fanny said nothing. Then, "We are often so different, you and I."

"Perhaps that is what draws me to you. You are so different from anyone I have ever known. The two of us are natural opposites, complementing each other like hot and cold, chaos and order."

"Are you teasing me, Miss Crawford?" It came out as more accusatory than she'd meant it, and Fanny winced.

"Nonsense; I would not dream of it! You draw out the poet in me, that is all."

Fanny still wasn't quite sure she believed Mary, especially as she was struggling to suppress a teasing smile, but she was eager to avoid confrontation, and so she let it go.

"Besides," Mary added, "if a bit of light teasing irritates you, perhaps you should get a new sense of humour."

Fanny smiled. It looked slightly strained. "I am afraid that this is the only one I have."

Mary realised that she'd upset her, but she didn't say anything. She'd already apologised to Fanny once this walk; she saw no reason to do it again. Instead, she decided to make up for it at some later opportunity.

* * *

As it turned out, the opportunity was not slow in coming. The walk had taken longer than expected, not helped by the fact that Mary had chosen to slow down, and when they reached the house Mrs Norris was waiting outside, glaring daggers. Fanny cowered, almost hiding behind Mary in her sudden fear.

"Mrs Norris!" Mary exclaimed before she had had a chance to speak. "I seem to have deprived you of an assistant. Forgive me for propositioning Miss Price for my own ends, but I simply could not do without her company - she is so _very_ charming. Please, I entreat, do not punish her on my account." And with that declaration, she turned on her heel and started to walk back towards the parsonage.

Mrs Norris waited for her to go out of earshot. "You should be very grateful for Miss Crawford's kindness, Fanny," she said sharply.

"Yes, Aunt Norris, I am."

"Of course, it is very unlikely that a woman like her truly considers you her friend. She is of a different class entirely; it is only due to her charity that she spends so much time on you. Now, come inside. I have some tasks I want you to perform."

Fanny suddenly felt very much like crying. She followed her aunt indoors.

* * *

The next time Fanny saw Miss Crawford was that evening. After supper, the usual rehearsals of _Lover's Vows_ commenced, and Fanny was hiding upstairs to avoid a repeat of the last night's fight. She had just settled herself down when a knock came at the door, and a moment later Mary came striding into the room.

"Miss Price," she said, "would you mind assisting me with my lines?" Fanny opened her mouth to reply and Mary held up her hand. "Now, do not protest, I entreat; I am not asking you to involve yourself in our amateur dramatics any more than this. But this scene between Anhalt and Amelia is rather too...well, let us say simply that I am not yet comfortable enough to rehearse it with Edmund, and leave it there." She pressed the play, open at the scene, into Fanny's unresisting hands. "Now, all you need to do is read out Anhalt's lines from _that_ point -" here she leant over to indicate the line - "and I shall do my best to remember Amelia's part." She paused for a moment. "I assume, of course, that you _are_ agreeing to do so?"

Fanny was for a moment lost for words. Finally, hesitatingly, she said, "I suppose..."

"Excellent!" Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. "Now, shall we begin?"

Fanny took a deep, trembling breath. She didn't truly understand why she was so nervous; she put it down to her disapproval of the play (although she had already been assisting in various ways) and how close she was now becoming to it. "I come from your father," she began, "with a commission."

"No, no, no," Mary tutted, "I cannot work with an Anhalt so wooden! To truly capture his spirit you must imagine a suppressed love; Amelia is so far above your station as to make it improper, and so you attempt to hide it. Try again."

"I come from your father with a commission," Fanny said again, and this time Mary didn't interrupt her. "If you please, we will sit down. Count Cassel is arrived." Her voice shook slightly. Mary smiled in approval.

"That is good! Exactly how Anhalt would react upon learning that a man who covets Amelia's hand is near."

"If you please, Miss Crawford," Fanny said carefully, "it is you who are rehearsing, not I."

"Quite right. I can always trust to you to keep me focused." Mary cleared her throat. "Yes, I know."

"And do you know for what reason?" Fanny asked. She began almost to imagine herself as Edmund, who, it seemed to her, was very deeply in love with Mary, and so a good template for the role.

Mary thrust her chin up proudly. "He wishes to marry me," she declared. The performance seemed so close to Mary's usual character that Fanny almost believed it to be real; she felt a twinge of...something as she read the next line. A simple conversation, she reminded herself, between two characters in a play. It wasn't really Mary saying these words, but Amelia. And she was Anhalt.

The conversation skipped along, the lines flowing easily from Fanny. She became so involved in the scene that she was unaware of a slight blush rising to her cheeks as she spoke. Mary watched her carefully.

"Are in love!" Fanny recited. "And with the Count?" _And with Edmund?_ A small part of her mind seemed to say.

"I wish I was," said Mary wistfully as she gazed at Fanny.

"Why so?"

"Because _he_ would, perhaps, love me again."

Fanny felt a strange emotion stirring in her, as though the character of Anhalt had taken over her body. She almost wished to grasp Mary's wrists, to declare, _"But I_ do _love you!"_

Instead, she read the line. "Who is there that would not?"

Mary stroked her arm tenderly. "Would you?" The emotion she exhibited was so believable it could almost be real. But, that, of course, was impossible; although she was playing the part of a man, Fanny was not one. For Mary to feel any sort of desire for her, apart from that produced by a strong friendship, was beyond imagination. And yet, even as she denied it, the same desire rose in Fanny.

"It is your line, Miss Price," Mary urged, amusement playing across her lips.

"I-I-me-I-I am out of the question," Fanny said dutifully. She felt a sort of kinship with Anhalt stammering that line. Apart from the fact that class wasn't the key player in _her_ unsuitability. The thought - the fact that she could even _consider_ that idea of her relationship with Mary - worried her, and, to avoid it, she focused even harder on the lines.

Something which Mary was making difficult with her acting. She leant close, so close that Fanny could feel the hot air from Mary's breath on her face.

"No," Mary said quietly, then repeated it a few times for good measure. "No, no, no; you are the very person to whom I have put the question." She brought her hand to Fanny's forehead and pushed the hair that fell there out of the way. Fanny trembled under her touch, and stumbled through the next few lines nervously. Mary still didn't move away, but in fact seemed to draw closer. The scene grew more flirtatious, and Fanny grew more nervous, now quite pink in the face. By the time Amelia was entreating Anhalt to teach her of love, her usual colour had been almost overtaken. And Mary, as she watched Fanny stutter and blush and be generally awkward, felt a realisation come upon her.

She was in love.

It had approached secretly, manifesting itself in the desire to please Fanny, in the pleasure taken in her company, in the softening of Mary's character due to Fanny's gentle chiding. But now in this quiet moment, she found it had enveloped her heart. As she spoke the next lines, she tilted Fanny's chin upwards, so that their lips were almost brushing.

"A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love," she began.

* * *

They were apart before Edmund had even walked through the door. Mary had a vague sense of Fanny struggling away from her, and felt a surge of doubt. Was it possible that she had fallen in love with someone who could not - or would not - love her back?

"Mr Bertram," she said, suppressing these thoughts. "Miss Price was helping me to rehearse."

Edmund looked embarrassed. "That was actually what I came up here to ask about - I hoped to convince her to read Amelia for my Anhalt. But," he adopted a hopeful expression, "now that you are here perhaps we could instead practice with each other?"

He looked so pitiful that Mary decided to humour him. "Of course," she said. Then, turning to Fanny, "Would you watch us, so as to correct any mistakes we make?"

Fanny nodded, and stood up out of her seat to allow Edmund to sit down.

They began the scene again. At times during the rehearsal, Mary could catch the expression on Fanny's face out of the corner of her eye. It was one of extreme sadness - perhaps she didn't even realise that she was showing it herself. Mary knew the look well; in many of her light flirtations she had seen other women make the same face. But this time it was more ambiguous - was Fanny jealous of Mary, or Edmund? Did she even know herself? Mary allowed herself to muse on these questions rather than pay attention to her lines; as a result her performance was distracted, vague. The scene finished; Edmund's clear disappointment at her lack of interest caused Mary to feel a twinge of pity in her heart.

"Shall we go for a walk outside, Mr Bertram?" she asked kindly. "It is not yet too dark out."

Edmund brightened up. "Oh yes! Of course! I suppose we shall need a chaperone, though." And he hurried downstairs without even thinking to ask Fanny. As Mary followed after him, she caught the same deeply sad expression on Fanny's face that she had seen earlier.

"Do you wish to accompany us, Miss Price?" she asked.

"Oh, no," said Fanny, endeavouring to seem cheerful, "I think that I would only get in the way."

Mary didn't question her, but left the room to go downstairs.

* * *

"Mary," Henry declared on the way home, "you will be pleased to know that I have decided to renew my attentions to Miss Price."

"I am overjoyed, Henry," Mary said absentmindedly. "But what, may I ask, has changed your mind so completely?"

Henry made an attempt to kick a stone on the path, but missed instead and almost fell over. He looked quickly left and right to make sure that no-one had seen.

"It was seeing the two of you this morning," he said, his voice overly dignified as though trying to compensate for his embarrassing slip. "Enthusiasm quite becomes her. Tonight as well; she came downstairs some time after you had gone out on that walk with the two eligible Bertram bachelors. She seemed very disappointed not to see you there. I spoke with her on a few topics I thought she might find interesting, and she simply lit up! I was so taken with her that I even prevailed upon her to join in with our play, so that I might spend some more time with her."

Mary kicked him in the shin. "You really are an abominable fool, Henry," she said. "Did not you see how much the incident last night upset her?"

"Well, yes," Henry muttered discontentedly. "Perhaps that was not the best way to go about things. Normally I would not take nearly so much trouble, but then again, her disinterest in me is something that I find rather abnormal." He stopped momentarily to rub his shin, wincing.

"You _could_ spend more time with her outside of the rehearsals for _Lover's Vows_ ," Mary suggested as she stopped to wait for him.

Henry straightened up. "Perhaps," he said. "Of course, I will have to exert considerably more effort than I am used to in such matters, but I suppose I could do with the challenge."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps, if you fail, you will be taught a lesson for once; if we are lucky you may even entirely give up on toying with young women's hearts."

* * *

"You are _so_ fortunate to have Miss Crawford's particular friendship, dear Fanny," Julia declared with a sigh only slightly too exaggerated to be sincere.

Fanny watched her carefully, and not without a bit of concern. Julia had only just stopped sulking after the part of Agatha had been given to Maria - during which time she had only admitted the company of Mr Yates - but now she had immediately latched on to Fanny, showing far more affection for her than she ever had in the previous eight years they had known each other.

"I am sure that Mary, had you wished for the part of Amelia, would not have stolen it from underneath you, especially if you were _clearly_ right for the role," Julia continued.

"But I most certainly did _not_ want the part of Amelia," Fanny replied, a note of panic creeping into her voice.

"Yes, yes, I know, but the point is that if you _had_... I only wish that I had such a relationship with Maria."

"I think our friendship is quite different from yours with Maria, Julia," Fanny said, blushing slightly - the memory of the evening where they had acted together had come upon her.

"Fanny, are you being deliberately obtuse?"

"Oh no, certainly not!"

It was at that point that Mary came up to them, her usual smile upon her face. "Miss Price! I assume I cannot flatter myself that you are here to watch me rehearse?"

"Oh yes!" Julia gushed. "Why, when I first went over to her, she was looking at you _most_ intently - the sweetest expression of admiration on her face - and I had to speak several times before she could even hear me! If you were a man, Miss Crawford, I should have assumed you and she to be lovers!" When she uttered those last words, there was something uncharacteristically sharp in her tone, as though she believed herself to have uncovered something.

Fanny blushed, and only went a deeper pink when Mary began to speak.

"Is that so?" she said, amusement weaving between her words. "Well, I shall repay the compliment. If I were a man, I would get down on my knees _right now_ and ask you to marry me."

"Did someone mention marriage?" It was Henry, who had managed to join the group without any of them noticing. "May I presume to join this triad of charming ladies?"

"Of course," Julia said immediately, blushing slightly as she did so. She was slightly put out when she saw Henry turn his attentions to Fanny.

"To what pleasure do we owe your appearance at this rehearsal, Miss Price?" he asked in his most charming voice. "Unless I am mistaken, you usually avoid being in such near proximity to our little play."

"She came to see me," Mary declared proudly. Fanny's face was now hopelessly red in her increasing embarrassment.

Henry watched Fanny in amusement. "Is that so?" he said. She nodded reluctantly.

"I feel almost as though I have betrayed my values," she admitted quietly. "I have been so against this play, and yet I do so enjoy watching your sister, whatever she happens to be doing." A sort of joy seemed to light up her features. Henry found himself smiling involuntarily.

"I am grateful that you have discovered my sister's charms," he said. "Albeit a bit later than most do."

"I hope that I am not interrupting anything important," Tom called from the middle of the room, "but it would be greatly appreciated if the performers would return to _performing_." He reserved an especial glare for Mary, still irritated at her intercession on Fanny's behalf, despite the many weeks that had passed. Perhaps part of the reason he was so frustrated was that, although they were missing their cottager's wife due to an illness of Dr Grant's keeping her at home, Mary's protection prevented him from forcing Fanny to read her lines.

Henry stood up and bowed his goodbyes. He and Mary were about to return to the rehearsal when Edmund came into the room, pale faced.

"Father has arrived," he announced.

All at once the room was thrown into confusion. The Bertram siblings at least had the presence of mind to rush out and meet their father, to try and delay his discovery of their play as much as possible. Fanny was about to follow them, but Mary took her hand.

"Please, stay a while." She offered a weak smile. "Your uncle will not miss you so very much. Not as much as I will, should you go to meet him."

"Mary," Henry said sharply, "I think it best if we depart."

"Nonsense," Mary replied. "I refuse to leave Miss Price."

Fanny sat back down. "Mr Crawford is right; you will only get in trouble with my uncle if he finds you here." But, despite her protests, she made no effort to get Mary to let go of her hand.

"I will bear it," Mary said firmly. It was clear that she had no intention of leaving Fanny to face any portion of his anger alone. Or perhaps she simply did not wish to shorten her evening solely because the patriarch of the household had returned.

Henry shot a nervous glance at Mr Yates, still acting, oblivious to the turmoil. " _Mary_."

They heard voices from outside.

"...and where is dear Fanny? I would wish to see her."

Everything seemed to freeze as Sir Thomas Bertram entered the room. Fanny felt a sudden urge to run, despite her relative lack of involvement. His eyes scanned the room, his countenance darkening as he took in the entire scene.

"Sir, even if you undertake to punish the rest of us, please understand that Fanny had nothing to do with it - she disapproved even when _I_ ignored what a good moral sense would have told me to disapprove of," Edmund explained.

Sir Thomas' eyes rested on Fanny for a moment - a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

He recovered quickly, and then his eyes snapped to the right, to Tom, looking at his father defiantly, despite the plan that had been uncovered. "Tom, I wish to see you in my study," he said coldly. " _Immediately_."

Tom drooped slightly, and traipsed out after him. A door closed. Raised voices could be heard echoing throughout the house.

Fanny began to cry. Mary grasped her hand yet tighter.


	4. Chapter 4

The day after Sir Thomas' arrival, he called Fanny into his study.

"I was pleasantly surprised to notice how much your beauty has blossomed, Fanny," he said when she'd shut the door. "Perhaps not so pleasant was the discovery of just how close you have grown to Miss Crawford."

Fanny was silent for a moment. She tried to think of a reason for why he would disapprove of Mary, but the only reason that came to mind was -

"From my understanding, Mr and Miss Crawford significantly encouraged the...festivities I found on my return last night, the details of which have now been fully explained to me."

"Oh, Miss Crawford was not -" Fanny cut herself off - it had occurred to her that Mary had, in fact, been one of those keenest to put on a play. But then again, there hadn't actually been significant opposition to the idea either. Not from her. Certainly not from Edmund, once he had taken a part that put him close to Mary.

"That is not what I called you here to talk about," Sir Thomas said before Fanny could build up the courage to point that out to him. "Fanny, I have been informed that…" Unusually for him, he seemed to be struggling with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. "I was regrettably absent for your eighteenth birthday, but certain people have informed me of the names which you bear on your wrists. The Crawfords are rich. I am not opposed to _any_ sort of attachment between our families, even considering their recent...lapse of judgement. Perhaps, though, you should focus on _Mr_ Crawford. After all, you cannot marry a woman."

He smiled at the idea, as though he found it amusing in its ridiculousness, but Fanny could not believe that. If he found it so unbelievably silly, then why would he bring up the idea at all? Why would he couple it with his admission that he knew the names on her wrists? She was so stricken with fear that she almost forgot to nod.

"Now that the subject of soulmates has been brought up, I feel I should warn you that it is time for you to come out. A ball will be held in your honour here at Mansfield."

She must have looked particularly horrified at this, for once Sir Thomas had taken one look at her face he continued,

"Your brother William will be able to join us for the event; I have made enquiries and discovered that he will be able to take shore leave during the time which I propose for the ball to take place. No doubt he will write to inform you himself in due time."

That made her brighten up; when Sir Thomas waved at her to leave, she did so cheerfully.

As she hurried out of the room, Sir Thomas called for her to send Maria in.

* * *

"Mary," Henry declared after breakfast on the following day, "I have an important announcement to make." Dr and Mrs Grant were still downstairs; he had lead her away in order to have some privacy.

"You have decided to run away to sea after last night's disastrous first meeting with Sir Thomas Bertram," Mary guessed.

"No, no, of course not." Henry took a breath. "Mary, I do believe that I am in love with Fanny Price."

Mary felt a pang of jealousy - one which she attempted to hide as she asked, "And what do you expect me to do about this hopeless infatuation?" Perhaps she wasn't so _very_ successful in her attempt.

"Why I expect you to help me woo her, of course," Henry said, a bit put out at his sister's reluctance. "I intend to go Bath, ostensibly for business with my uncle, although naturally it will be assumed that my true aim is to avoid the eagerly awaited nuptials of Mr Rushworth and Miss Bertram - indeed, I am sure that Miss Bertram prefers me to him, and I would not want to cause any trouble on such a happy occasion - where I will stay longer than is, perhaps, necessary, in order to purchase the perfect gift for Miss Price. She will not, of course, accept such a gift from me, so I want you to give it to her in my stead."

Mary thought for a moment. If she encouraged Henry's courtship of Fanny, then a marriage would likely take place, and she could be sure to keep her always close by. But on the other hand, she was worried that Fanny would genuinely fall in love with Henry, and then any chance of anything between the two of them would be gone. She weighed the two options up. Jealousy, for the moment, won out.

"No," she said. "I do, however, appreciate your departure; I will be able to keep Miss Price all to myself, without any interruptions from your ill-advised attempts to woo her."

Henry scoffed. He wasn't used to his sister refusing to be an accomplice in his schemes. "Honestly, Mary, if you were a man then I would suggest that you were in love with the girl." He paused. "You are not, I take it?" He said it hesitantly; it sounded a silly suggestion now that he'd said it out loud.

"Of course not," Mary said quickly. "Now, get yourself ready to visit Mansfield; I want to see the grand patriarch of the house by the light of day."

* * *

Fanny was overjoyed to see Mary, and was almost bursting in her eagerness to tell her the news.

"Oh, Miss Crawford," she exclaimed. "William is coming to visit! My uncle has just informed me of it."

"I am surprised at how pleased you seem at the opportunity to see him," Mary remarked, a slight smile on her face. "Why, if my own brother were to go to sea for years I would be glad that he was causing trouble for someone else."

Fanny's joy immediately vanished, and Mary realised her mistake.

"Of course," she said quickly, "I should not assume by Henry's example that all brothers are as infuriating as he is. Although," she could not resist from adding, "William has been with the Navy for a fair while now. Perhaps he has been corrupted by his fellows."

The horror on Fanny's face deepened, and Mary was quick to explain that she was joking. But that did not stop the idea from being planted in Fanny's mind, no matter how much she told herself that William would be the same as he had been, despite her letters from him that assured her that all was well.

* * *

It was not long before the marriage between Maria and Mr Rushworth took place. As he had promised, Henry retreated to Bath in order to avoid any trouble that might be caused by his presence. The marriage went ahead smoothly, for the most part. Of course, Maria did not love Mr Rushworth, a fact which most people apart from the groom himself were all too aware of, but he was very rich, which perhaps largely made up for that unhappy circumstance. Henry's absence was noticed by Maria, who became strongly convinced that Henry loved her so much that he couldn't bare seeing her wed to another man. This was, of course, very far from the truth, but it pleased her to think it, especially as she was still sore from the lack of interest Henry had shown her, and as no-one was privy to her thoughts, no-one was able to contradict them.

With Maria's departure from Mansfield, along with Mr Rushworth and Julia, the time for William's visit came closer and closer. Fanny, still sore from Mary's ill-chosen joke, forbore from speaking about him with her, but she still thought of his arrival constantly, excitement and nervousness combining so that she would have been made quite restless, had fear of Mrs Norris not kept her for the most part in check.

* * *

Another important event happened during the wait for William; not, perhaps, something that would have seemed significant to others, but which sat in Fanny's heart amongst her most cherished memories.

On an errand for Mrs Norris Fanny had been caught in the rain. Since she was nearer to the parsonage than the big house, Mary and Mrs Grant had charitably allowed her to stay, and even loaned her clothes. That was not the significant part. Mary, to her shock and chagrin, learned that Fanny had not yet heard her play her harp. Inexcusable oversight! Why, hadn't Shakespeare once called music the food of love? If Fanny was not yet in love with her, then an hour with a harp would no doubt solve that problem.

It was truly beautiful. Despite herself, Mary was slightly disappointed to see that Fanny seemed more adoring of _her_ than the piece she was playing, one which required a large amount of skill to pull off. Still, when Mary finished she was full of praise, begging her to play something else, and Mary was satisfied.

Fanny's mind was filled with the music, and the beauty of the performer, for the entire day. She was so absorbed by it that she barely heard Mrs Norris scolding her for being late.

* * *

Mary's joke had made Fanny fearful, but those fears soon turned out to be unfounded; William arrived with a huge smile on his face, just the same as the boy she remembered from her childhood, albeit quite a bit taller. For a long time, the two were inseparable. Neither Mary nor Edmund, despite their closeness to her, could tear her away from her beloved brother, who she had not seen in so long. Henry, just returned from his excursion to Bath, made a valiant attempt, but he similarly fell short.

"Miss Price is very close to her brother, is she not?" Mary remarked to Edmund one day.

"He is a reminder of her younger years," Edmund replied in explanation. "Do you know that when she first arrived here, the hardest thing for her was being away from William?"

Mary watched the two of them together. William was enthusiastically telling Fanny a story from the Navy, and she looked the most contented Mary had ever seen her. "I can believe it," she said.

"After I helped her write a letter to him, she became far more cheerful," Edmund continued. "I do not believe that anyone could come between Fanny and William. Not even a husband."

"Mm. Quite different to my relationship with Henry. Which is not to say that I do not care for him," Mary added quickly when she saw Edmund's inquisitive look, "but he can be awfully foolish sometimes. Fanny seems like she worships her brother."

Edmund smiled slightly. "She certainly does."

"Mr Bertram, do you mind if I excuse myself from this conversation?" Something had just occurred to Mary.

"Certainly, Miss Crawford," Edmund replied, trying not to sound too disappointed.

* * *

"I hope that I am not interrupting anything," Mary said as she came to sit beside Fanny and William, "but I wish to speak to Miss Price."

"Oh, not at all, Miss Crawford," Fanny said cheerfully. "William had just finished telling me one of his Naval stories."

William smiled at Mary. "So this is Miss Crawford? Fanny has been telling me all about you, miss."

"Has she really?" Mary looked at Fanny, who blushed.

"I would like to thank you for being so kind to her, miss," William continued. "I know how lonely she can feel sometimes, even with cousin Edmund."

"Your sister's company has been a pleasure to me," Mary replied, and had the satisfaction to observe Fanny's blush deepen in colour. "If there is any family resemblance between the two of you then I am sure that we shall get on wonderfully." She returned to Fanny. "Miss Price, I am sorry for any offence my earlier comments may have caused; I see that your brother is far more wonderful than my own, and it was unfair of me to say such things."

"I am sure Mr Crawford has good qualities," Fanny protested. She looked over at him as she said so. He was looking at her with an expression that made her start.

"Oh, certainly. They are just safely hidden away, beneath his many bad ones." Mary turned to William. "But enough about my regrettably wayward brother; I am sure you will learn of his ways soon enough. I do not suppose that you have any more tales to regale us with?"

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Henry was keen to ingratiate himself with the brother of his soulmate. During his time in Bath he had only become yet more smitten with Fanny - or, at least, his own idea of her - and the mark on his wrist had grown bolder and bolder as he gained faith in the idea of a soulmate. He keenly offered the services of a horse more than once to William, for the purpose of hunting in the grounds, although this was less likely to make Fanny like him than he would have thought - she was in a state of great anxiety at each exertion, until her brother returned unharmed. But Henry paid no heed to this concern, apart from the charming way it showed Fanny's love for her brother. He began to fall deeper still into love, and, after one particular visit to the Bertrams - where Henry had talked to Fanny a little, and William a great deal, to be the more likely to please the sister - he was elated. He even began to kiss his soulmate tattoo.

"Oh, to think that I ever doubted the truth of this simple mark!" he declared. "Do not you think, Mary, that Miss Price was especially beautiful today?"

Mary, who had actually spent a great deal of time - far more than her brother had - talking with Fanny, smiled. "Yes," she said. "Exceedingly so. Her brother must bring it out in her. Did you see the way her eyes sparkled with adoration as she watched him talk?" She realised what she had said and abruptly fell silent.

"Oh, certainly," Henry said, apparently oblivious to the nature of Mary's words. "I believe that I am more in love with her than ever. Why, if she continues like this, I shall marry her!"

"I am sure that that would be marvellous for all of us," Mary replied, trying to ignore the tight feeling in her chest. She wasn't usually the sort to get jealous. But then again, she had only experienced mild flirtations before. This was something more serious.

"You do not seem pleased for me, Mary," Henry said. "I would have thought that you would be overjoyed."

Mary gave him a tight lipped smile. "Oh, I am," she said. "I look forward in great anticipation to your wedding."

For Mary was so used to women falling in love with her brother that she never supposed that Fanny Price would be different, even if it took her a little longer than most.

* * *

"Mr Crawford was very polite to me this evening," William remarked to Fanny when they were alone.

"Yes," Fanny replied. "I should thank him for the kindness he showed you - the kindness he has _continually_ shown you throughout your visit."

"I saw the way he looked at you. Does he -" William stopped himself when he saw Fanny's shocked expression. "Do _you_...?" he ventured.

"Mr Crawford? No, no, not at all." Fanny frowned. "I had never even _considered_..."

"His sister, on the other hand..."

Fanny stared at him. "What?"

"I mean that the two of you seem close."

She found herself lost for words. Eventually she forced out, "I suppose we are."

William regarded her carefully. There was still that gentle affection, the desire to look after his younger sister, that had been there when they were younger. "Fanny," he said, "is there something that you wish to tell me?"

The mark on Fanny's wrist felt like it was burning into her skin. She had a sudden desire to burst out, to tell William everything. But a terrible, gnawing fear held her back. "No," she said. She felt sick. "No, I do not think so."

Concern flashed in William's eyes, but he didn't press her. "Well," he said instead, "I hope that you know..." he hesitated, uncertain quite how to phrase it. "I can see that you have become incredibly close, even in the little time that you have known her." He smiled. "I think that you should hold on to that."

Fanny could only nod. She felt like she'd been stripped of her voice. All she could think was, _Does he know? What would happen if he knew?_ She tried to calm her fears. _My friendship with Mary - with Miss Crawford - is perfectly natural. There is nothing to know._

There came a knock at the door and Fanny pushed her fears to the back of her mind. Edmund came in; when he saw William he looked embarrassed.

"Fanny," he said, "I had wanted to tell you something, but I now see that you are busy."

William stood up. "Not at all, cousin," he said graciously. "If you want to tell Fanny something in private then I am very happy to leave."

He was quick to prove this. Edmund sat down in the seat William had just vacated. He looked nervous.

"Fanny," he began when he was sure that William was out of earshot, "I am...I am in love with Miss Crawford. I intend to ask her to marry me."

Fanny felt like something was stabbing into her, but she made an effort to ignore it. "If you think that it shall make the both of you happy, Edmund..."

"That is very true - only, I have no idea if it _will_ make her happy. She spends so much more time with you than me; tell me, does she talk of me often?"

"Not very often," Fanny admitted reluctantly. She wanted so badly for Edmund to be happy, that it almost hurt her to let him down in such a way. Yet there was a part of her that was relieved that Mary hadn't shown Edmund the same attention he had shown her.

Edmund deflated somewhat. "Oh, well, if that is the case -"

"I think that you should still ask her, Edmund," Fanny said determinedly, trying to force her discomfort away. "I am _sure_ that she would make you happy."

Edmund immediately brightened up again. "Well, if _you_ think so, Fanny..." He leapt up. "Then I shall." He faltered for a moment. "But perhaps not quite now. Fanny, this is not something that I have told anyone else, but...I believe Mary to be my soulmate. If that _is_ true, then I cannot afford to make any mistakes should I choose to propose." Taking a deep breath, he thanked Fanny for her time and went out of the room.

William would probably not come back for a while yet. Fanny stared absently at the floor. Her eyes stung slightly in that way they would just before tears started falling, and she felt a strange hollow feeling in her chest. She took a deep breath.

Edmund _would_ marry Mary, and they would be happy. She felt that with certainty. Mary would be right for Edmund. Mary, who was often so good, and charming, and captivating -

Another breath.

She was in love with Edmund. Yes, _that_ was why she was upset. It was foolish to think that she would have ever been good enough for him, but that was why. It had nothing to do with the strange feelings Mary had awoken inside her, and _definitely_ nothing to do with the incriminating mark on her wrist. Almost instinctively, she pulled up her sleeve to stare at it. _Mary Crawford_. Even seeing the name made her heart beat faster and caused an unconscious smile to spread across her face. Oh, how she wished Mary could have been with her in that moment!

A knock on the door. Fanny quickly pulled her sleeve down and rushed to open it.

Behind it was Edmund. He smiled apologetically. In his hand was a chain.

"I forgot to give this to you. It is for the cross William has given you, so that you can wear it around your neck."

Fanny smiled her thanks. She must have looked upset, because the next thing Edmund said was,

"If you are upset about my proposal to Mary, you must not be. It might feel as though I am taking your friend - who is your platonic soulmate, after all - away from you, but I promise that that is not the case. If she _does_ agree to marry me, we shall not be very far away from you."

Fanny thanked him again, and shut the door. Then she leaned against it and heaved a heavy sigh. She almost wished that the Crawfords had never come to Mansfield - but then she thought of Mary, and the idea of a world without knowing her caused a great ache in her chest.

* * *

Henry's plan to find the perfect gift for Fanny had come to nothing for various reasons, the first and foremost being that during his trip he had come to the unfortunate realisation that he did not know her well enough to judge what present would be most well-received. Fortunately, Mary came to the rescue, however unwillingly; she happened to mention one evening the amber cross Fanny's brother had brought her from Sicily, and what a shame it was for Miss Price that she did not have a chain with which hang it around her neck. That was just the thing! He had given Mary the perfect necklace for the purpose a short while ago, and if he could only convince her to make a gift of it for Fanny, then he would succeed after all. What did it matter if the gift had passed into another person's hands first? It was still, in a way, a gift from him to her. But it was not to be; Mary soon made it very clear that she would have nothing to do with the matter, and so he decided, very reluctantly, that he would be the one to give the gift to Fanny, after he had acquired it (with questionable legality) from Mary's jewellery box. It wasn't, of course, the proper thing to do, but since Mary had refused he was forced into it. Besides, Henry had never given much thought to what society considered acceptable behaviour. And he was certain that Fanny would be so taken with him that she would ignore the manner of giving and accept it on the spot.

The gift in question was a rather overly ornamental gold necklace, perhaps not entirely to the young woman's taste, but she was sure to take it out of gratitude, if nothing else.

Unfortunately, when (on one of Fanny's increasingly regular visits to the cottage) he tried to give it to her, he discovered that he had been beaten to the punch - by Edmund of all people!

Fanny looked embarrassed. "Oh no, Mr Crawford, I could not possibly accept this from you. It was very kind of you to think of me, but I already have a chain for my cross, given to me by cousin Edmund."

Henry forced a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain. If only he hadn't been delayed by Mary's refusal - _he_ could have been the one to bestow the first gift! "I do not mind at all," he lied. "But surely you will not refuse it outright?"

This made Fanny even more uncomfortable. "It would be improper, Mr Crawford," she said, "unless you were openly courting me." The very idea caused her discomfort to again increase.

Henry bowed. "Of course; I understand." She was right, of course, but he had been so used to women accepting his gifts regardless of impropriety that it had not even entered his mind that she'd refuse.

He made his excuses and went to walk outside.

Mary smiled and showed a bracelet to Fanny.

"I'm sure that you will not refuse this, Miss Price. Now, I realise that it may look suspiciously like a bracelet which I have in my own room, but I have to tell you that that is pure coincidence and -"

"Miss Crawford..."

Mary saw her expression and sighed. "Of course, of course. I should have put more effort into a gift, I admit, but I am afraid that the thought completely slipped my mind until today, and _now_ there is no time for it."

"Miss Crawford, you need not trouble yourself so much."

"Nonsense!" Mary snapped her fingers. "Ah! It is not much of a gift, of course, but it's the only one I can offer - my company!" She beamed at Fanny. "I shall be as charming as I can be for your sake." She took a step closer to Fanny and tapped her on the nose. "In return, for as you know I am terribly selfish and would never do anything without reward, you must promise me a dance."

"You are joking, surely."

"On the contrary; I am as serious as I have ever been."

"I...but..."

"Two good friends sharing a dance can hardly be seen as improper, can it? If it really worries you, then I am sure that we can find some secluded spot where no one will notice."

Fanny stared at Mary, awed by her lack of fear. Men and women who meant nothing to each other danced together, it was true, but there had always been that rule: it must be a man and a woman. Quite like marriage, really.

"You may have a dance with me, Miss Crawford," she found herself saying.

Mary was overjoyed. "Excellent!" she cried, and bent over to kiss Fanny on the cheek. "Now," she declared, "you must have much to prepare, and I shall not keep you."

* * *

As Fanny went on her way, she thought of the kiss, the mark of which still burned on her cheek. Her heart felt like it was flying high above the world, and she couldn't explain why. The idea of a dance with Mary, perhaps. But why would that - no, she wouldn't think about it. And yet, even with that promise to herself, she remained in a daze until the evening.

* * *

The ball was impressive, as any ball hosted by a rich family was likely to be. In truth, Fanny was rather overwhelmed by the noise and the people, all of whom were eager to meet the young woman it was in honour of. Her nervousness was alleviated somewhat when she shared a dance with Edmund, but soon her partner was again a stranger, and at every available opportunity her eyes were searching the room for Mary.

At last - after what can only have been half an hour at most but felt much longer - the Crawfords arrived. Fanny's breath caught in her throat. Mary looked beautiful.

Her gloves were carefully embroidered with patterns that Fanny couldn't quite pick out from that distance. Mary's hair was more intricately styled than usual, and she wore a dress that was clearly far more expensive than those of other women in the room.

None of these things were what took Fanny's breath away. It was the way Mary seemed to absorb the mood of the room; her eyes sparkled with the joy of the moment.

Beside her was Henry, wearing a dark scowl which momentarily deepened when he saw Fanny, Edmund's chain around her neck. Then he seemed to recover himself, and sent a charming smile her way. She shrank from it.

Mary came up to her. "As I promised," she said, "my company."

Fanny smiled weakly. "I was worried that you would not come."

Mary looked offended. "I cannot think why; I am only fashionably late, not _rudely_ late." In truth, she had spent perhaps longer than usual on her dress, so keen had she been to Fanny.

"Perhaps we are simply not up to date on the latest fashions, here in the country," Edmund suggested. When he had noticed Mary, he had begun to make his way towards them. "May I request a dance, Miss Crawford? I apologise for not asking earlier, and I suppose your dance card must be quite full -"

"Not at all, Mr Bertram. In fact, I seem quite unpopular in this small community. As to your question: certainly you may request it, but you really should be asking whether I shall accept it."

"Shall you?"

Mary thought for a moment. "Yes," she said at last. "I believe I shall." She turned to Fanny. "I hope you will excuse us, Miss Price. Do not fear, however; I shall return later in order for you to fulfil your promise." She smiled as Edmund led her off into the crowd.

Fanny danced the set with Tom. He had never been close to Fanny, and so wasn't eager for conversation, something which relived Fanny as it aligned perfectly with her own current feelings. She needed time to think. A dance with Mary was such a _pleasant_ idea, but she wasn't sure quite how they'd get away with it. They couldn't dance one of the sets; everybody would notice. And if they slipped away, surely it wouldn't be long before someone found them missing.

It seemed impossible, but she _had_ promised Mary...

The set ended. Mary went up to her, still in the same cheerful mood she had been in since she had arrived. Edmund trailed slightly behind her, unsure.

Mary was about to speak, but when she saw Edmund still there, she stopped abruptly. He looked uncomfortable.

"If you wish to speak with Fanny more privately, Miss Crawford, I would be happy to leave," he said.

"Thank you," Mary replied. "Your offer is much appreciated." She said it in a way that implied that she would be far less polite if he didn't take the hint and leave.

Edmund walked off, his shoulders bowed slightly in disappointment. Mary turned back to Fanny.

"Now," she said. "I believe that you are yet to fulfil your promise to me."

"I do not know how we can -"

Mary leaned closer to her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "No one here is paying any attention to you. To be sure, they likely all wished you well at the beginning, but now their hearts are full with the excitement of the ball. No one shall notice if we leave for a less...well populated area of the house." She took Fanny's hand and began leading her away. Fanny made a show of resistance, but even though she tried to deny it, she knew deep within her that she wanted this. There was no harm in it - it was only a dance, after all; she had danced with several different people that night, and it should mean nothing.

But a dance with _Mary_! Her heart filled with joy even at the thought of it.

* * *

Mansfield Park was a large house, and had many guest bedrooms which were very rarely used. After some searching, Mary found one of them sufficiently far from the ball and dragged Fanny in after her, shutting the door after them.

"Shall we start with a quick dance?" she asked. "But please, I entreat, make it one I can hum easily. What we lack in terms of instruments can be made up for with my own voice."

"I am afraid that I am not very knowledgeable on the subject of dances, Miss Crawford," Fanny admitted, not without a little embarrassment.

Mary tutted. "What _has_ that cousin of yours been teaching you? Very well, we shall dance the first dance of the last set. I think that I am still able to remember the tune."

It was a quick dance, one that left them both out of breath, especially Mary, since - as she had promised - she had undertaken to hum the tune.

They paused to recover. Mary regarded Fanny with a smile. An idea had come into her head.

"Miss Price," she said. "Have you ever heard of the waltz?"

Fanny looked scandalized. The waltz - a shocking dance from the continent, one condemned by many authorities, not least amongst them religious leaders.

"The waltz?" she said. "But that is -"

"Frowned upon by all polite society. I am perfectly aware of its reputation," Mary replied. "Of course, it cannot possibly be such a bad thing in our case, since we are two women, and there cannot be any of the criminal sensuality found in other cases. It is simple enough to learn, which perhaps may account somewhat for the criticism it faces; with such a simple dance, how are the dance masters to earn their keep?"

Fanny could not hold back a smile. "How do you know this dance, Miss Crawford? I would not have thought that you could come across it, here in England. Perhaps it is not so shocking a thing in London?"

"Ah, now you must allow that to be my own secret, Miss Price. Regardless of how I came about the knowledge, I am willing to teach it to you, should you so wish."

Fanny thought for a long moment. "As you have said, we are women, and so there cannot be the objection found as when a man and a woman are so close to each other." And yet...there was the strange way she felt drawn to Mary, perhaps rather like the attraction between a man and a woman in its nature.

She would dance the waltz with Mary. That would prove that there was nothing other than friendship between them, surely? If there was hesitation, there would be a reason for hesitation, an acknowledgement that it was possible for that sort of feeling to exist between two women.

Or perhaps that was just a poor excuse, a reason to do something she longed for.

Oh, it was all so confusing!

Mary still gazed at her expectantly.

"I will..." Fanny said hesitantly, "that is...will you...will you teach it to me?"

She looked overjoyed, and Fanny's heart felt full with...no, not _love_ , unless it was the type of love that many women had for one another, the love of a friend.

Mary stepped forwards. "I shall be the man," she declared. "Now, take my left hand."

Fanny took it obediently. She stiffened slightly when Mary put her other hand under her shoulder.

"Now put your hand on my shoulder," Mary told her.

Fanny did so. She hadn't realised quite how close the dance brought its two partners.

"The next part is very simple," Mary continued. "Step backwards and to your right once, then to your left twice. We shall go around the entire room doing something similar."

It took them a few tries to get it right; Fanny was so nervous about Mary's closeness that she struggled to control her feet properly. But at last they were waltzing together. Both were so focused on the dance that they didn't even notice the lack of music, or how they were gradually drawing closer together. Fanny was tired from the unusually large amount of dancing she had done that night, and when she leant her head on Mary's shoulder it seemed quite natural.

"It is hard to waltz when you are leaning on me, Miss Price," Mary said laughingly.

Fanny couldn't find it in herself to care.

The dance slowed down. When they finally noticed the time, the two of them were barely moving, just swaying in one spot, pressed against each other.

It was Mary who realised first. "Why," she exclaimed, "we have been here for so long that no doubt the dancing will have finished!"

Her cry seemed to bring Fanny back to reality. She sprang away from Mary and an expression of panic crossed her face. If they had not been missed during the dancing, they surely would be now.

Mary looked firm. She grabbed Fanny's hand and began leading her back the way they'd come.

"I shall take the entirety of the blame," she told her as they walked. "I shall not allow _anyone_ to unnecessarily chastise you."

"Miss Crawford," Fanny said, "I truly am grateful for your willingness to defend me, but I fear that in this case I _am_ partially to blame."

Mary said nothing. Instead she quickened her pace, and before long they were back in the room that had been used for dancing. As Mary had predicted, the dancing was finished; the room was empty, the guests having gone away to talk or play cards, whichever took their fancy.

Empty apart from Sir Thomas, who stood in the middle of the room, waiting. He looked thunderous.

"I really must apologise, sir," Mary began in the same flippant tone of voice that she had once used for Mrs Norris, but before she could continue, he cut her off.

"This ball was in your honour, Fanny," he said, barely keeping his anger in check, "yet you have the gall to sneak away from these people who would no doubt wish to see you here! The gall to be so disrespectful towards my wishes for you! I would never have thought that you, of all people, could be so _ungrateful_!"

His voice had been rising all throughout his speech, and by the end he was almost screaming the words. Fanny was near tears.

"With all due respect, sir," Mary began coldly, all of her earlier light-heartedness gone, "if you had chosen to speak to Miss Price about what she would want, you would be aware that she is not the kind of person to enjoy large gatherings, and would likely have much preferred a smaller, more intimate group for her first ball." She stared at him in barely disguised hatred.

Sir Thomas sneered at her. "I should have expected such a lack of regard for common politeness from _your_ kind, but I - foolishly, it seems - believed that a life in England would have driven it out of you."

Mary stiffened. Fanny saw an expression in her eyes that scared her, and for a moment she was worried that Mary would do something reckless.

She didn't; instead, she spun on her heel and stalked out of the room, out into the open air. Fanny began to follow her, almost without thinking, until Sir Thomas called her back. She turned back to him, and there seemed something ugly in him that she had never noticed - or perhaps had only chosen to ignore - before.

"If you follow her," he said, "you shall be severely punished."

She hesitated only for a moment. Then, with a barely audible apology, she was rushing out after Mary, leaving Sir Thomas in his anger.

* * *

Mary was sitting on the steps leading up to the house, staring out at the grounds of Mansfield Park, when Fanny came out.

"Miss Crawford?" she said quietly.

Mary turned around, and for a moment her discontented expression changed to one of happiness. "Fanny!" Just as quickly it settled back. "Did you leave your uncle to see me? You will get in trouble - worse trouble than that I tried to defend you from."

"I-I know," Fanny said hesitantly. "My uncle was very clear on that fact, but I...I was worried about you. I had to come to you. I _am_ sorry."

Mary tried another smile. "You are far too good to me, Miss Price. But I think I would much rather that than someone who treats me exactly as I deserve. Now," she patted the place next to her on the steps, "I suppose that you have come to hear the _exact_ reasons for why I left so rudely?"

Fanny blushed. "No; I am perfectly aware of what your reasons were. What my uncle said was cruel...very cruel; for a short time I was afraid that you would do much worse. I came only to keep you company out here." She sat down next to Mary, carefully making sure that there was space between them. Mary moved closer, so that their legs brushed.

"Perhaps you can keep me warm as well," she murmured. "It is far colder out here than I was expecting." She shivered.

Fanny suddenly found that she didn't altogether mind Miss Crawford's closeness to her. Mary's name on her wrist seemed almost inconsequential here, in the near dark. "The cold will be worth it," she said quietly, "when the stars come out. Oh! Miss Crawford! They are so beautiful here in the countryside." Her eyes sparkled with life as she watched dusk settle on their surroundings.

"I am sure that they are," Mary said, looking at Fanny. "There are many beautiful things in the countryside." She smiled, and in that moment she was the bright and laughing Miss Crawford, who never let anything phase her. She leaned over and kissed the side of Fanny's forehead. "You are very dear to me, Miss Price," she murmured. "Please, do me a service, and never forget the love that I hold for you."

Fanny turned so that their noses were almost touching. It occurred to her how easy it would be in that moment, as the sky darkened, to kiss Mary. The thought scared her, and she recoiled from it. Instead, she moved to rest her head on Mary's shoulder, and sighed contentedly.

"Perhaps we should move, before we become too comfortable here," Mary suggested. "Although perhaps _comfortable_ is the wrong word. Guests will doubtless be leaving soon."

They relocated to a window ledge, which left them very little space; they were forced closer together than they had been before.

They sat there for so long, pressed together, that Fanny almost forgot why they had come out there in the first place. It was only when Miss Crawford spoke that she remembered.

"Sir Thomas is a slave owner," Mary said, in a way that was altogether too detached to be natural.

"Yes."

"And my brother and I...we are black. That is not something that can be ignored after your uncle's comments tonight. It was not something that could be entirely ignored before, but this has brought it painfully to the forefront."

"Yes. But," Fanny sat up suddenly, almost overbalancing as she did so, "he cannot see you in the same way. Tonight was only because he was frustrated, surely -" Mary cut her off with a bitter laugh, so unlike her usual mood that Fanny stopped speaking out of pure shock.

"Do you really think that matters, Miss Price? Do you truly believe in such an important distinction between what a man will say in anger and what he will say when he is calm and rational?"

"No," Fanny avoided looking at her. "But I am not you, Miss Crawford. I cannot so easily stand against my own uncle. Tonight, perhaps, but I do not believe that I could do it again."

"Even in a matter such as this? Even when human lives are at stake?"

"I love this house," Fanny said nervously. "And I have nowhere else to go. It does not matter if I know slavery is wrong. I cannot disagree openly."

"You could live with me," Mary said, so quietly that it was barely audible. Fanny said nothing that would indicate that she had heard, but her hand found Mary's and held it hesitantly. It was silent again, for a moment. Then Mary began to speak again.

"I suppose we are nothing really like them, Henry and I. We are educated, rich, English! They are not our people. And yet," she took a deep breath, "I suppose that does not really matter. If we were born into a different situation...and even as we are, we have had to fight for our place in this world." She laughed suddenly. "Ah, but I have never been much good at being serious. It does not suit me. And look," she pointed at the now completely darkened sky, "you were right about the stars."

White specks dotted the blue-black sky above their head, sparkling brightly.

"It is as if they are watching over us," Fanny whispered. "Oh, I do not want this night to end! Watching the stars with someone I...with a friend!" She yawned, and curled up next to Mary, who put her arms around her companion.

* * *

It was not until a fair time later that Henry stepped out. By that point, Mary had almost forgotten the cold. He looked around, searching for his sister, and at last spotted her on the window ledge, but said nothing, only indicating by a gesture that it was time they made their way back to the parsonage. Mary made to move, but a murmur of objection came from Fanny, now half-asleep.

Mary smiled. "I shall carry you back inside," she told her firmly, and with that, she lifted Fanny up and into her arms.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure that you can take her all the way back to her room? I am certain that I could -"

"No, Henry," Mary said firmly. "I can manage quite well on my own. Miss Price is very light, perhaps worryingly so."

The Bertram household was quieting when Mary re-entered with Fanny; all the guests, apart from the Crawfords, had left long ago. Even the Grants had been persuaded to head back earlier, leaving their relations to make their own way to the parsonage. Only Edmund remained downstairs; when he saw Mary, he smiled in that gentle way of his.

"Do you know where her room is?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Mr Bertram; I have been there several times in the past, when I have been unable to find Fanny in the East Room." She almost visibly winced at how rude she sounded, and quickly changed the subject. "I suppose that you are going to bed now as well?"

"That is correct," he said. "Good night," he hesitated, "Mary."

She smiled. "Good night, Edmund."

Without another word, she took Fanny upstairs to her room, at the top of the house. As she lay her down on the bed, Fanny drifted into full consciousness for a moment, and a faint, loving smile lit up her face. "Mary," she said tenderly.

Mary returned her smile. "Fanny," she said, and bent down to kiss her on the forehead.

By the time she descended, Edmund had gone to bed. Only Henry waited.

"Are you ready to return home?" he asked.

For a moment, Mary was confused. Then she realised that he must have meant the parsonage. "Yes," she said. "I rather think that I am."


	5. Chapter 5

Sir Thomas kept to his threat of punishment, although Edmund, feeling that his father was being overly harsh, managed to convince him to be more lenient than he had originally planned. She was, of course, forbidden from seeing Mary, and was for the moment mostly confined to her room (and, after a while, the East Room - thanks to Edmund) but Sir Thomas had been so furious that he could well have done worse. William would have gladly stayed with her during that time if he could, but, due to the impending end of his shore-leave, he was regrettably forced to depart early in the morning after the ball - accompanied part of the way by Henry, who claimed to have some business in London. Only Edmund remained to keep her company, and even that wasn't for long; in another day he had to depart in order to take the church orders that would make him a clergyman.

And so Fanny was left miserable and alone, where previously she had been so happy. She longed desperately for the company that seemed to have gone away all at once, in no small part because, with so little to keep her occupied, her mind often rested on Mary and her confusion about the nature of their relationship. Her ability to deny her own feelings was gradually failing, no matter how much she might push against them, and Mary's actions left her feeling uncertain. Was it possible that Mary could be _in love_ with her? No, not at all! Fanny's mind recoiled from the idea. Mary could not - she could not be like _that_. No, no, it was only something wrong with _her_ that was the problem. Part of her, a very powerful, large part of her, hated herself for such feelings, but she still couldn't help but think of Mary with joy, couldn't help but wish she was there with her. Oh, how she longed for the simplicity of the past!

* * *

Mary was also, in her way, thinking about Fanny. She knew on what business Henry had left for London, and could not help but think that after such a great service on behalf of William, Fanny could not help but love him. Indeed, it would be a great thing for the two of them to marry; Henry was not looked down upon by Sir Thomas as she was - any objection he might normally have would be willingly ignored because of the Crawfords' money and Henry's not inconsiderable estate - and it would still mean that she could be close to Fanny. The more she thought about it, the more she thought it the best idea, for she lacked the faith to believe that Fanny would have enough courage to stand up to her uncle in order for their friendship to truly resume.

But Fanny's influence had instilled some sense of morals into Mary, and even as she began to think upon the best course available to her for forwarding the match, she felt a guilty voice in the back of her mind. Fanny might well have been beneficial for Henry, but Mary did not truly believe that he would be good for her, and she almost worried about the cruelty of pressuring her into a marriage that might do more harm than good.

A few months of friendship with Fanny Price did not, however, counteract years of amoral behaviour and bad company, and so she brushed aside the thought; her only concern now was to be close to Fanny no matter what she had to do to ensure it, and regardless of whether the course of action she chose was most, or indeed _at all_ , pleasurable to her friend.

* * *

Henry returned soon enough, armed with good news. William had been promoted to lieutenant; indeed it seemed that he had been promoted due to the influence of Henry's uncle. At this news, Fanny became more cheerful than she had been since the night of the ball, and for a while barely thought of the losses of Edmund, William, and Mary.

Henry's arrival, in itself, brought far less joy. He visited without his sister, knowing, perhaps, of her lack of popularity with Sir Thomas, but he had soon, after a talk with the man himself, secured Fanny's company for the afternoon, a privilege which included permission for her to visit the parsonage. There was something about Henry which unnerved Fanny, and she would have shown greater reluctance - even with the hope of seeing Mary - had a fear of defying her uncle not made her agree with far more eagerness than she felt. This, coupled with the knowledge that she now must be indebted to Henry due to the service he had performed for her brother, made her more silent than usual during the walk to the parsonage.

Henry had his reasons for delaying the proposal he intended to make; the first was that he hoped some time to ruminate on the benefit he had been to William would soften her. The second was that he firmly believed that he had a better chance to win Fanny's hand if he had his sister's support, given how close the two of them were.

"It was necessary for me to consult with Sir Thomas almost immediately after I had the good fortune to inform you of your brother's promotion," Henry told her, finally bored of the silence, "and so I was not able to judge your reaction to the news. I presume that it was a happy one?"

"Oh! Yes, I am very happy indeed, Mr Crawford. And most grateful to you, I am sure, for securing his happiness," Fanny replied. She felt nervous, and almost sighed with relief when, not long after, they reached the parsonage. Mary was looking out of the window, and when she saw them approaching she ran out immediately, despite the cold; she gave a cry of joy and embraced Fanny with all the warm affection of true friendship.

"Oh, Fanny," she exclaimed. "Oh! How I have missed you!" Her grip tightened. Fanny returned the hug.

"Miss Crawford -"

"No, no, you must call me Mary. We are surely close enough _now_ for that!" Mary broke out of the hug and held Fanny at arm's length. "Why, Fanny, I hardly thought it possible, but you have grown even more beautiful since last I saw you! Any man would be lucky to marry such a charming woman, though whether nearly as many would deserve it is debatable."

Fanny blushed; Mary's eager reception of her meant she was even more confused as to where they stood than she had been already. Henry was completely forgotten, standing awkwardly beside the two reunited friends. After a few more effusions of joy from Mary's side, the three of them went inside. For a short while the room was filled with cheerful talk and Fanny felt herself content. Alas, it was not for long, for Mary soon disappeared discreetly from the room - although not before having dropped several more hints about the advantages of matrimony. Dr and Mrs Grant had been earlier prevailed upon to take a walk, and so she found herself left alone with Henry. Fanny began to feel her earlier nervousness creeping back into her mind.

"Miss Price," he began. "I did not forward your brother's career solely due to good will, or because of a particularly fond friendship between he and I. Part of my motivation for doing what I have was in order to win your affections. For, Miss Price -"

"Oh, Mr Crawford, please do _not_ -"

"- I am deeply in love with you, and I entreat you to do me the honour of consenting to marry me." He stopped and gazed at her expectantly.

Fanny felt awkward. Of course she couldn't, in good conscience, agree to marry him when she didn't love him - he hadn't even been a consideration until that moment! But, equally, she didn't want to let him down.

"I am most grateful for your attentions, Mr Crawford, but I cannot repay them," Fanny began. "I am very sorry to refuse you, but refuse I must."

Henry looked taken aback. Anger flickered across his face. At some point, curiosity had caused Mary to slip back into the room in order to discover what Fanny's response would be. She looked greatly disappointed.

"Fanny," she said, "may I talk to you for a moment?"

Fanny consented, and they went to a secluded corner of the house, where neither Henry nor the Grants - should they return - were likely to come across them or to hear them.

"I must beg you to reconsider, Fanny," she told her. "For - and I do not think that this is entirely proper to say, but I must tell you, if only to forward the happiness of you both - for you are Henry's soulmate, and I am afraid that he will be _very_ greatly disappointed should you refuse." She didn't stop to consider the effect her words would have on Fanny; she was only desperate to keep her close, no matter the consequences, even if it meant Fanny's marriage to Henry.

Fanny looked shocked. The guilt she had been feeling due to her refusal doubled. If she said no then she would break his heart, perhaps for ever, but she _couldn't_ agree. Her conscience railed against it. She longed dearly to be able to love him, to transfer her affections from his sister, not because she particularly liked Henry, but because the alternative had been torturing her for months.

"Mary," she said tremulously, "I do not love your brother. It would be wrong of me to marry him with that knowledge. Without my love, I fear his own satisfaction at the match would soon be gone."

"Nonsense!" Mary scoffed. "Many happy matches have been made without a romantic attachment between two partners. Why, we need only look at Mansfield's - or Sotherton's, I should say - own Mrs Rushworth for that to be proved."

Fanny shook her head forcefully. "I am very sorry, Mary, but I cannot marry your brother."

Mary let the matter drop, but an air of resentment remained in her demeanour. They made their way to a more comfortable area of the parsonage, and the conversation turned to other things until it was time for Fanny to return to her uncle's house.

* * *

Another attempt to persuade her was made that evening. Henry had been invited to dine with the family at the park, and he brought with him a note from Mary.

 _I am very sorry that we parted on less than excellent terms today, my dear Fanny. Of course you do not want to marry him yet, but if you would only give it some thought then I am sure you will come around to the idea in time. Only think - we shall be sisters if you consent to the match, and will be able to spend as much time around each other as either of us can possibly afford to spare. Please reconsider your choice - for my sake, as much as Henry's._

Fanny stared at the note. Something in Mary's handwriting - as dear as could be, and yet the subject matter so repulsive to her! - made her feel an emotion which she did not have the courage to fully acknowledge. To be close to Mary, that was desired above all, but to marry her brother to achieve that goal seemed impossible - more than impossible; to be going against everything that was right, to throw away her own beliefs, her own _self_. And to what ends? To knowingly deceive Henry due to her friendship with his sister? She did not like him by any means, but that would be too cruel.

If Henry had hoped that such a letter would encourage her to reconsider his proposal, he was mistaken; it left her in a near stupor for all of the time that he was there, and she would barely reply when he attempted to talk to her, something he did far too often for her liking.

* * *

Sir Thomas, upon discovering that Fanny continued her refusal even after several days, made his displeasure strongly felt. The Crawfords were rich, and especially considering Fanny's background, it was a very good match. He had thought that a few days consideration as to what she owed to their family would have been sufficient, but it was not to be. It was impossible that she should have some prior attachment, not with the limited nature of her acquaintance, and so he became convinced that this whim was pure stubbornness on her side. His anger was such that it reduced Fanny to tears, but she stood firm. She would not sacrifice her belief for anything; she would not marry Henry Crawford - no, not even if the whole world was against her!

News had quickly reached London, and soon Fanny experienced an unusual occurrence; a letter from Julia, addressed specifically to her. It spoke largely of her luck (how _Julia_ would have liked to be so especially preferred by Mr Crawford!). Fanny hadn't expected any encouraging words from her, but the support of the match from all quarters, the assumed inevitability of it, stung. Julia's letter did, however, contain something of note. A comment on her soulmates.

 _As much as I envy you such a match, I cannot help but think of the names on your wrist. I know that at the time you first showed them to us we all assumed them to be the names of true friends, but having observed your especial closeness with Miss Crawford...perhaps I am reading too much into these things, but please be aware that you are not the only person with - unconventional, shall we say - soulmates._

Fanny stared at that part of the letter for a long time. A show of comfort from Julia was most unexpected, almost as unexpected as a proposal from Henry, but she felt some comfort in it, some suggestion that she was not _entirely_ obligated to follow the path that Sir Thomas had chosen for her.

* * *

The small hope afforded by the letter was soon quashed firmly when Edmund returned, now proudly ordained. He seemed as eager as the others for her to marry Henry - perhaps more so given Mary's support of the match. At first she had hope; he seemed to understand the impossibility of marrying a man she did not love, but unlike Fanny he was firm that that love would come if she was given some time to truly know Henry.

"Henry Crawford is not a bad man, Fanny," he told her one day. "If you would only acknowledge that, and open your heart to him, then perhaps you would soon be in love, and could marry with a clear conscience."

She didn't reply.

"Fanny," he tried again, "I truly believe that this could be good for you. Everybody is keen on this match."

"Everybody but myself, Edmund," Fanny replied quietly. "And am I not the one who must live with the choice?"

"Fanny, you might never make another match so fine," Edmund said.

She smiled thinly at him. "I cannot and will not marry a man I do not love, no matter how much others may wish it for me."

He sighed heavily. "Of course you cannot. But please do not reject him outright. I am sure that in time you will love him so much that you will laugh at this."

In vain she tried to make it clear that she could _not_ like Henry, not after she had seen his inappropriate conduct during the staging of _Lover's Vows_ , and she certainly couldn't love him, for _other_ reasons that were best kept to herself. But Edmund wouldn't believe her, and was in fact more convinced of Henry's eligibility by the events that followed; one evening, he read Shakespeare to the company after tea. Edmund took one look at Fanny's rapturous gaze as he read the speech and was satisfied. Perhaps he would have been less so had he known that she would have appreciated anyone who could read it well, and that she had spent most of the time imagining Henry's sister in his place.

* * *

"Why cannot you see how beneficial this shall be for our friendship?" Mary cried in vexation. When he had seen how eager she was for the match, Sir Thomas had begrudgingly forgiven her for her past transgressions and allowed her to see his niece.

"Surely our friendship can be sustained without my marrying your brother?" Fanny asked.

"Certainly - but if you are wed then we are sure of always being close!"

Fanny felt very upset; even those she thought she could trust were against her on this matter, and she felt worn down and doubtful. She would still not yield, but it was becoming tiring.

"Mary, you know that I cannot -"

"If only you would _think_ for a moment then you would see that this is the best course for you!" Mary said angrily. "I do not understand you, Fanny! Surely there is no one else in your heart?" To her, Fanny and Henry marrying was a way to stay close to her, and she was too impatient a person to stand Fanny's repeated refusals. Weeks had slowly destroyed any patience she might have had to begin with.

Fanny looked at her, shocked. There _was_ someone else in her heart, but she wouldn't say it; Mary could never know.

"No...but-"

"Or is it perhaps because you are waiting ever so faithfully for whoever you believe to be your soulmate? Show me your wrists!"

Fanny was horrified. For Mary to demand knowledge of such a private thing… She was disappointed; she had thought Mary a better person than to ask for _that_ , even in the heat of anger. She had been so used to ceding to others' requests throughout her life, but now she dredged up some courage and refused outright.

But Mary was not to be swayed; grabbing both of Fanny's wrists, she forced the sleeves up to reveal two names before Fanny could stop her.

 _Edmund Bertram._

 _Mary Crawford._

Fanny pulled away from her before she could take in all that they meant. Once the understanding _did_ come to Mary, any joy garnered from the knowledge was destroyed when she caught Fanny's expression. Mary was not used to feeling guilt, but now she felt the full weight of her terrible mistake come crashing down on her all at once.

"Fanny," she began, not sure what she was going to say, but feeling a terrible longing for forgiveness.

"Miss Crawford, I think that you should leave," Fanny said in a trembling voice. " _Now_."

Mary practically bolted from the room. If there were tears in her eyes, she was careful to conceal them.

Fanny collapsed onto the floor and started to sob.

* * *

They barely saw each other in the next few weeks, and when they did each took great cares to avoid the other as much as was possible. Fanny, despite her confidence that Mary had been the one to act wrongly, could not help but feel guilty about refusing the knowledge to her. She almost felt that if she had acquiesced to Mary's request then they would still be talking; part of her believed it was her who should apologise. But she tried to ignore that part; she knew its falsity; the blame was entirely on Mary's side. And yet she could not help but doubt herself.

* * *

Mary had been putting off her return to London for some time now. She had intended to leave Mansfield to visit her friends Mrs Frazer and Lady Stornaway for a long time, but there had always before now been some reason to put it off. Now that she and Fanny were no longer speaking, the time of year became suddenly perfect for the journey, and she became eager to leave as soon and as quickly as possible. On the day that she left Fanny avoided her even more than usual, and in fact the only glimpse of Mary she got the entire day was, when coming down the stairs, she heard her voice, saying her goodbyes. She stopped on the stairwell, then began slowly retreating her way upwards. It was too late; Mary walked into the hallway and caught her eye. They both stood stock still for a moment. Then Mary looked away and, without even a second glance, left. That was the last that Fanny saw of her.

* * *

William's next visit on shore leave barely served to comfort her. As much as he was concerned, and despite his attempts to comfort her as much as he could, it was to no avail. How could she possibly explain to him how she felt for Mary? How could she possibly explain Mary's transgression? It seemed to her impossible, and so instead of trying she remained aloof from him - as much as it pained her, and no doubt him as well. For her it felt as though as though, in the span of a few months, all of her relationships had been ruined. How long ago the joys of December seemed now, when she was all alone, isolating herself even from those who would help her.

* * *

Sir Thomas soon decided, for the first time in over eight years, that Fanny must miss her family, and therefore he suggested a trip to Portsmouth, with her accompanying William back. The idea of leaving Mansfield horrified Fanny, but there was nothing she could do. And perhaps, after all, it would be a good thing to visit her parents, to get away from the house that must now have so many painful recollections attached to it. She wrote accordingly, was accepted, and soon she was ready to return home with William.

* * *

The parting was painful. Edmund said goodbye with all of the earnest care that she had come to expect from him, but she was greatly saddened that Mary was no longer around to see her leave. Of course, she shouldn't miss her, but she could not help herself, and now that both of them were travelling away it felt as though they were farther from each other than either would have thought possible mere months ago.

As the carriage began to move, William looked at her with a smile, which quickly dropped when he saw her expression.

"Fanny," he asked gently. "Fanny, is anything the matter?" It was a question that had been sitting on his tongue since he had first seen her, but each time he had begun to ask it he had been brushed away.

Fanny gave a choked sob, and tried to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.


	6. Chapter 6

Part of Fanny had hoped that a stay in Portsmouth would allow her to forget Mary, but it was not to be; William had soon to go off to sea again, in his new position as lieutenant, and in his absence all she was left with was a father who seemed permanently half-drunk, loudly squabbling siblings, and a mother too busy to pay attention to her.

All that remained for her were her thoughts. Thoughts that rested uncomfortably on Mary, and the way they had last spoken. She missed Mary very much, but without _that_ memory, she would have perhaps been able to bear it; there would not be that bitterness in their parting, that simultaneous dread and longing felt in the idea of seeing her again.

With nothing to distract her, and no one to care if she fully wasted away in the midst of this confusion of people, Fanny began to sink further and further into dark despondency, only recalled from such endless depths of misery by chance.

She had at first made an attempt to endear herself to her younger siblings, but, either due to her own half-heartedness or their complete lack of sensibility, she had soon given up and instead resigned herself to loneliness. There was one - Susan - who, if Fanny had not been so wrapped up in her own despair, would perhaps not have been dismissed simply as a bad tempered fourteen year old, and instead a far greater sense of feeling than Fanny could have expected in such a noisome, busy household would have been discovered, a sense which Fanny herself would have no doubt endeavoured to tease out in better circumstances. As it was, it was only several weeks into her stay - weeks filled with silent, lonely suffering - that her notice was drawn to the girl; Susan, long concerned at how withdrawn her sister was, finally asked her what the root of her sadness was. Fanny was half-tempted not to reply, but something in the way the girl spoke convinced her that there would be no harm in revealing such a thing to _this_ sister, at least.

"I have - or rather, I _had_ \- a friend whom I cherished most intimately," Fanny admitted after pausing for a long time to think on these things. "I miss her dearly - far more than perhaps I should, as we have not known each other very long - but I am afraid that we did not part on good terms." She sighed heavily.

Susan gazed at her older sister with dark, intelligent eyes. There was a wholly unexpected look of sympathy in them that struck Fanny. "I am very sorry for you, sister," she said sincerely. "Was this disagreement really so bad that you cannot even write to her, to tell her about the misery that this parting has caused you?"

Fanny's silence was all but confirmation. She could have told her sister that she did not think Mary would care, that Mary had other concerns that did not include whether or not she had insulted the poor relation of a rich family, but she did not. In all her distress at what had happened she had forgotten the look of guilt in Mary's eyes, the attempt to apologise.

From that point on she looked at Susan with new interest; she saw a difference in her from the other members of their family, an actual effort to set right what she saw as wrong within the household. Soon, Fanny had decided to take her under her care in order to try and improve her somewhat.

Her decision was only somewhat formed on the hope that throwing herself so fully into something new would help her to forget Mary, at least temporarily.

* * *

Mary, meanwhile, was distracting herself in a different way, one which Fanny would have barely been able to conceive of, and would have looked upon with horror even if she had. She had joined friends almost as uncaring as she herself had once been, and it would have shocked Fanny to know how quickly Mary seemed to slide back into her old ways. It would not be entirely fair to say that she was throwing herself indiscriminately into frivolous pursuits, but she was almost certainly acting with less care than she had even before she had met Fanny Price, and these were not the sort of friends to prevent her from harm - they were rather more likely to encourage such behaviour, since it was so similar to their own, and caused them great amusement.

Out of her merry circle of friends, Mary was by far the one who laughed the loudest, even at the cruellest of jokes; the one who flirted the most indiscriminately, and who gleefully encouraged such behaviour, no matter how ill advised, in her married friends. She could only hope that these thoughtless flirtations would make her forget the woman she had fallen in love with; Mary wasn't used to feeling guilty, and she found the feeling, and the way it continued to sit with her, deeply unpleasant. The only thing more unpleasant would be to apologise. It was not, after all, so _very_ serious a thing; Fanny had simply overreacted - or so she told herself, after the first attempt to make amends had been brushed off and she retreated to lick her wounds. She quickly found that it was far easier to revert to the worst of her old behaviour than think of that which caused her pain. No matter the newly discovered voice of conscience that scolded her even for the least severe of her excesses.

Edmund came to the city a few weeks after her own departure. He had intended to propose, but when he arrived in London he was horror struck. Here was not the Mary he was used to, the one who he had always seen as so wonderful, and whose goodness had only grown over the months he had known her. In London, he saw the very worst of what she could be laid out before him, and it did not take much before his decision wavered.

During his stay, he managed to secure some interviews with her; but each time she was flippant, dismissive of his concerns, and, especially worrying, she would always find some excuse for him to depart whenever he attempted to bring up Fanny and speak of how _she_ fared. It was not long before he gave up and returned home. When there, he wrote of his bitter disappointments to Fanny, little knowing (perhaps not even thinking of) how much pain it should cause her when it reached Portsmouth.

After he had written the letter, he sat and thought for a while. It was very strange indeed that Mary should be so reluctant to hear Fanny's name spoken. It was true that he had not seen them together very much of late -

He sat up. Could that be it…? An argument between the two of them? It could only be hoped that a quarrel _was_ the root of Mary's actions, for that would not be so very difficult to solve. At least, not so difficult as the other idea that occurred to him - that Mary had been concealing this part of herself, and this was what she was _really_ like.

When he had returned, Edmund had scarcely expected to see Mary again, for a long time at least. If he had been able to look an hour or two into the future, he would have been surprised to discover that he would soon be on his way back to London, on purpose to speak with her again.

* * *

It was good that Edmund had realised, almost unknowingly, what the problem was; had he not decided to intervene, then it was very likely that Mary and Fanny would have continued as they were - one reluctant to give an apology, the other scared to ask for one.

Almost as soon as he had returned to London, Edmund sought an audience with Mary and after some haggling was admitted to her presence. Once the usual formalities were over, Edmund began to speak.

"Miss Crawford," he began, "I speak to you today not as a man intending to ask for your hand - I am sure that you are aware of my...my regard for you - or as a man of the Church here to tell you the error of your ways, but as a friend. I have seen enough of your recent behaviour to make me very deeply disappointed in you. In fact, until a short while ago I was determined never to see you again if I could at all help it, but then I realised -"

Mary had been watching him impassively, almost scornfully, but here she burst into mocking laughter.

"Why, Mr Bertram, your choice of words makes you sound rather more like a disappointed parent than a friend! And indeed, it is not my belief that true friends are so judgemental of others' choices. You who turn your back on me so easily, are you really a friend?"

Edmund stiffened. "I am not turning my back on you," he said slowly, "that is something that I would never do, and forgive me if I appeared to be. I am simply pointing out that you are not acting like the woman I knew at Mansfield Park. Fanny, especially, seemed a good influence on you; why do you now turn your back on every sympathetic quality she brought out in you?"

Mary flinched slightly. He had touched on a sore point. "Oh, Miss Price and I were never all that close," she said, trying to sound flippant. "As a matter of fact, I only spent time with her because I would have been so _deathly_ bored otherwise. Country livings would be abolished entirely if _I_ had my way."

Edmund scoffed. "Nonsense! I saw how close the two of you were. What argument has made you fall out in this way? Why are you so keen to forget her?"

Mary was silent for a moment. She tried to laugh; it sounded regrettably unconvincing. "It seems that you have hit upon the reason for my recent bad behaviour. How perceptive you are!"

"Miss Crawford...if this is about some quarrel that the two of you have had…"

"No, no, do not say anything more. I have done something terribly wrong; if Miss Price cannot forgive me - and indeed, that is what I must assume, given her silence - then what is the point of being good?"

"I have always believed," Edmund said carefully, "that good is its own reward. I refuse to believe that you were ever good _solely_ to impress Fanny - or, I hope that it is not true, because that sort of good is never one to last."

"As you can so clearly see," Mary said, still making an effort to laugh away the situation.

"Miss Crawford, why do you not write to Fanny? If what you have done is really so bad, then you should apologise."

"It is not in my nature."

Edmund thought for a bit. "Miss Crawford, if we never did things that we believed were not in our nature, then I doubt the human race would have managed to achieve as much as it has." He bowed. "I shall leave you to consider your own course of action, but please know that seeing you now gives me great pain, and I am sure that Fanny is suffering similarly from what knowledge of your behaviour I have given her. You cannot expect her forgiveness when you have not asked for it. I beg of you to do so."

* * *

His words had an effect on her; her guilt had been bubbling near the surface for a long time, even as she had attempted to repress it; it had required only a slight push to bring it to the forefront, and Edmund had provided that push. Once he had left, Mary did something she hadn't done in a long time; she sat down and, taking a deep breath, pulled up her sleeve to stare at Fanny's name.

It was almost invisible, no longer marked out in the strong black letters that she had become so used to.

Mary gave a resigned sigh. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Perhaps there is more truth in what you have told me than I was willing to admit, Mr Bertram," she admitted quietly to herself.

She sat in this position for a moment longer, lost in thought, then, as though coming to a decision, stood up, paced up and down for a moment, and finally sat down again at her writing desk and began to compose a letter.

* * *

The Prices were surprised to find, early one day, a gentleman and his sister coming to call on them. The gentleman professed to be a friend of their son William, and was most sincerely disappointed on finding him not at home (although all of William's acquaintance that they knew of were aware that he had been back at sea for some time now). His sister had some slight connection to their eldest daughter.

"We most sincerely beg your pardon for intruding on this family without warning," the gentleman said, charm oozing from his every word. "My sister and I were travelling in this area and we thought that we should take the time to visit the family of a young man who has been such a good friend to me. And, of course, we were desirous of knowing his sister better than we currently."

The family, rendered almost completely silent in their shock, suddenly sprang alive again, rushing about to make the two of them feel welcome, with Mrs Price in the middle, giving orders to her young underlings as she worked. A real gentleman and his sister? It was not something that could have ever been anticipated. Only Fanny remained inactive, staring in something akin to trepidation at the woman who had arrived so unexpectedly.

Could it really be Mary, come to see _her_?


	7. Chapter 7

It wouldn't have surprised Fanny if she'd learnt that the shock of that moment had stopped her heart. The Crawfords, here! All human intelligence vanished from her mind as she sat there, staring at Mary. She had forgotten how to speak, to move, to do anything that might have marked her as anything other than a petrified statue.

Perhaps it would have been easier to recover had Henry not been eager to try and fill the loud silence with eager questions.

"How are you enjoying Portsmouth, Miss Price?" he asked.

Fanny looked around desperately for some help, but the rest of her family had miraculously disappeared - presumably they wanted to help the Crawfords in their supposed desire to get to know Fanny better, and did so by leaving the three of them alone. She could not help but be surprised that there was any space to disappear to.

"I am finding it very pleasant, thank you, Mr Crawford," Fanny replied. That was good. _Pleasant_ was a neutral word. Her eyes rested back on Mary, although she would have denied directing them there of her own accord.

Henry coughed loudly and lapsed back into silence. Even he was starting to look uncomfortable.

Mary wished that she could send Henry out of the room in order to speak with Fanny privately, but she knew that that was impossible; after all, she had convinced him of this visit by framing it as another chance for him to win Fanny's heart. But there was no other option, no other hope of privacy. Mary had never imagined the Prices' house to be _this_ small.

"Shall we go out for a walk?" Henry suggested. "I would much enjoy being shown Portsmouth by a native of the place."

Mary knew her brother, and she knew that this suggestion hid a desire to get Fanny alone, no doubt to impress her with some selfless act that he would claim he had performed entirely for her benefit.

Fanny gave him a false smile. "Of course, Mr Crawford," she said, "but may I suggest that my younger sister Susan accompany us? She is far more knowledgeable than I about Portsmouth; it has been so long since I have been here, and I am sure that much has changed."

Henry's charming grin immediately dropped from his face. He looked taken aback; Mary had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing.

"Of course," he said at last. "That seems to me to be an excellent course of action." He spoke with a barely disguised annoyance.

* * *

Henry's plan had been as follows: suggest that he, Mary, and Fanny take a walk; when it was inevitably agreed to as most of his suggestions were, he would lead Fanny far enough ahead to have a private conversation where he would impress her with his recent exploits, and perhaps - if all went well - convince her at last to marry him.

The presence of Susan spoiled this plan somewhat. But Henry was willing enough to adapt his plan - he would somehow convince the child to walk with Mary instead of her sister.

Unfortunately, Mary had other ideas; as soon as they had all left the house, she looped her arm through Fanny's and set marching off ahead. Susan as well had her own plans - she took the opportunity provided by Fanny and Mary leaving to interrogate him.

"Are you in love with Fanny?" she asked abruptly.

Henry managed to act unfazed by her directness. "Yes," he replied. "I mean to ask her to marry me."

Susan stared at him with an intensity which almost frightened Henry.

"Does she love you?" was her next question.

Henry, for a moment, considered lying. Perhaps if he could get this girl on his side...

"Not as of yet," he replied, "but I am sure that she soon will be, when she learns of the charitable work that I have done since we last parted. I went to such great lengths that I am sure that she will be impressed." He sighed, and in a half joking tone continued, "I suppose that if I cannot speak to her then there is no point in doing such grand things, for she will never know of them."

Henry didn't notice the stoniness of the silence that followed; he was just happy to continue walking in the hope that they would catch up with the others.

* * *

"Miss Price - Fanny - you _must_ speak with me," Mary's tone was almost desperate, certainly pleading. The shyness that Fanny had shown at the start of their friendship had returned in full force and she could barely have opened her mouth even if she had wished it.

Mary pulled her closer. "Fanny, I must be honest. While I was in London I came to a realisation: after your company I could bear no other - your friendship is of a far better sort than any of my acquaintances there could offer. I had to come here because I could bear no place away from you for long; I could not bear the company of those that I used to call friends."

This wasn't entirely true, of course, but surely a young woman who wishes to win back the one she loves can be excused of bending the truth slightly in the pursuit of her goal?

Mary was gratified when her words caused Fanny to colour slightly. But still _she_ could not find the courage to speak. She stared at the ground.

"I have another reason for coming here, Fanny," Mary admitted after several long minutes of silence, in which the only sound was their footsteps, gradually becoming more and more in sync with each other as they walked along next to the sea. "I must apologise for something."

Fanny was startled out of her silence. "Apologise?" she exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

Mary laughed. "Yes, you may well be surprised. It is not something that I for the most part make a habit of."

"Oh no, I did not mean-"

"I am not angry, Fanny. I only wish that you would let me speak so that I can say my apology." She smiled, and her smile was returned in kind by Fanny.

"I breached your trust, Fanny, and for that I can only hope for your forgiveness. I should not have taken such...such liberties with you. I was becoming impatient, but of course that was no excuse. Will you ever be able to forgive me?"

Fanny didn't speak for a long time. Mary's heart began to sink in her chest. Oh...this was a mistake - of course Fanny could not forgive; the fear of what Mary could have seen probably held her back.

"I am sorry too," she began, but Mary cut her off.

"You have nothing to apologise for," she told her gently. "Unless defending yourself from a friend who is too self absorbed to think of anyone's feelings but her own is a crime."

Fanny relaxed - she'd been thinking of the names on her wrists, but either Mary hadn't properly seen them, or she had interpreted them in such a way that there was no danger for Fanny. There was another option, but she refused to let herself think of it.

"Whilst I am on the subject of apologies," Mary continued, "I feel I was rather eager to pressure you into a union with my brother. You must understand that it was born from a desire to spend all, or most, of my time near you -" (here, Fanny blushed deeply) - "but I realise now that I should have taken your wishes into consideration as well as my own."

Fanny didn't respond immediately. She was of course grateful for Mary's apology, but she could not help but remember all the pain this betrayal (for that is what it had felt like) had caused. Yet she was so used to easily forgiving people, avoiding conflict, not even receiving an apology, that even as part of her shrunk from the idea she longed to dismiss it all, to say that she didn't mind so that they could return to the way things had been that winter.

Mary was still watching her. They had slowed so much now that they were barely moving at all; Henry and Susan would catch up with them soon.

Something in Mary's expression - a sort of gained self-awareness, proof that this was a genuine realisation of her own guilt rather than an apology only to smooth things over - made her think that she could be honest without fear.

"Thank you, Miss Crawford," she began, "but…" (she felt a pang of guilt as she saw a look of disappointment cross Mary's face) "it may take me some time to truly forgive you."

"Of course," Mary replied, a little sadly. "I shall even leave Portsmouth, if you wish me gone."

The idea of Mary leaving seemed far worse than anything Fanny could have imagined; for Mary to leave would mean that there would only be Henry, who seemed set on spending time with her. Panic overtook Fanny.

"No!" she exclaimed, rather more forcefully than she had intended.

Mary seemed taken aback. "If you would rather that I stay..." she said hesitatingly, hopefully.

"You have only just arrived," Fanny explained. It was an excuse more than anything else. She certainly hadn't been thinking about it when she had told Mary not to leave. "It would be unfair to demand your departure so soon."

Mary doubted the truth of this statement, but she was happy for any excuse to stay with Fanny.

"Of course," she said. "If that is what you wish."

* * *

At first, it was difficult to communicate with Fanny; she had put up a wall between herself and Mary that seemed unlikely to come down any time soon. She was even secretive about her correspondents; once, when Mary out of curiosity had asked who had written the letter she was reading, Fanny had panicked and bolted upstairs, without answering, in order to hide it from her. It pained Mary, but she could not argue with its justification.

Fanny, for her part, felt immensely guilty about her behaviour, but somehow she could not bring herself to stop it. She knew it was rude, she knew it was overly distrustful, but still she was terrified by the thought that if Mary had been proved untrustworthy once, it could happen again. Despite this fear, she still felt some comfort in Mary's company, not least because it protected her from Henry and his keen, searching interest in her. Something about his sister's presence always held him back, whether it was her own closeness to Fanny or because he desired privacy for his goal. Whatever his reason, it was a great relief to Fanny that he would not press his court whilst Mary was there.

And during these long times where Henry would sit awkwardly, longing for his sister to leave as she conversed about nothing much in particular, they began, imperceptibly at first, to grow closer together.

Fanny did not speak as openly as she used to, but it wasn't long before the suspicion which had crept into her gaze without her noticing was no longer present in her eyes when she looked at Mary, and she began to seek her company for reasons other than the protection she provided from Henry.

Mary, for her part, took great pains to care for Fanny and to reassure her. She didn't push Fanny to reveal anything she didn't want to; she didn't talk if Fanny didn't want it.

The change in her was so remarkable that Fanny was almost worried that Mary was faking sincerity. One day, she managed to build up the courage to ask her about it.

"I do not wish to lose you again," Mary replied. "I have learned my lesson most thoroughly; it is better to be patient with you than not to."

Fanny was aware that Mary had always shown a great kindness towards her that she hadn't always mimicked in her behaviour to other people, but she was taken back by this new attitude.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "but I worry that you are suppressing some part of yourself for my sake; please, do not think to put my preferences over your own."

Mary stared at her in shock for a moment. Then she broke into a smile. "Why, Fanny, you are far too good for me. You are rarely - if ever - given the treatment that you deserve, but when I endeavour to amend that, you protest in fear that I am harming myself!" She leaned in closer. "My dearest Fanny, you deserve the world, and - cannot you understand? - I am aiming to do everything in my power to give it to you."

Fanny coloured deeply. "I would not know what to do with the world," she said.

"Oh? Then I shall be a friend, a better friend than I was before; perhaps that shall be something that you will know what to do with."

* * *

The growing peace between them was shattered one day by the arrival of a letter from Edmund. It was the one he had written when he had been upset and disappointed at Mary's conduct, and which he had sent off before stopping to think; his account of Mary's behaviour shocked Fanny just as they had shocked Edmund. Mary, unsuspecting, arrived at the house at her usual time, only to find Fanny sitting silently at the table. She turned accusing eyes towards Mary; the letter she had been reading sat in front of her, and Mary got enough of a look at it to recognise Edmund's handwriting. Somehow, in all of the time that they had been together, she hadn't found the right moment to admit to her bad behaviour in London. Now it seemed likely that Edmund had beaten her to it. She motioned at Fanny to step outside, away from the bustle of the Price household, where she could hopefully explain herself more easily.

* * *

"You lied to me!" Fanny burst out almost as soon as she had stepped out of the house. "You told me that you could not stand your friends in London - but this letter informs me that you were perfectly happy with them, being as irresponsible as you possibly could!

Mary tried to be calm in the face of Fanny's anger. "I was intending to tell you," she said sincerely. "But it always seemed like the wrong time."

Fanny looked like she was about to cry. "Why could you not have admitted it for yourself? Why did you do all that Edmund has recounted in the first place?"

Mary shifted uncomfortably. It seemed like nothing less than the truth would work here. Very well; she had vowed to be a better friend, and so she must make some attempt at it. "I was…I was trying to smother my guilt. Of course that does not excuse my actions, but my conduct in London is certainly not something that I ever intend to repeat."

She held her breath for the moment that Fanny took to consider.

"Do you really promise not to act in such a way again?" Fanny turned hope filled eyes upon Mary. She really did want to forgive her.

"I promise with all my heart." Mary smiled. "I am truly fortunate to have a friend so eager to pardon me for my transgressions, but regardless, I have learned my lesson."

That was the end of it. The momentary breach between them was healed, and Mary's honesty, late as it had come, had perhaps even quickened Fanny's recovery from the much larger injury that Mary had caused her.

* * *

Henry was impatient by nature, more so than his sister. There was only so much of Fanny's continued shyness around him, of her marked preference for Mary, that he could handle. Seven days had passed into his stay - more than he had intended at the start of his visit, but he had been waiting in a vain for a good opportunity to tell Fanny of his good deeds - when he took a sudden decision to make for London. His frustration at Fanny's reticence was further increased when, having offered to return Mary to her friends, she refused on the grounds that she would be "dreadfully missed by Fanny."

So it was, angry and embarrassed at Fanny's repeated and pointed avoidance of him, that he arrived in London. He had business of some sort there; that was his excuse, anyway. In reality, his main motivation had been to nurse his pride in a place where he was sure to be loved.

Henry didn't mean to meet Mrs Rushworth in London; in fact, she hadn't even entered his head, and it was only by chance, many weeks into his stay, that he had stumbled across her. But when he met her it was as though all the reforms he had attempted of his character in order to impress Fanny were gone. Here was a woman, a very attractive woman, who could not have been more clearly interested in him - something which greatly flattered his vanity. At the sight of him her husband was almost forgotten.

No one apart from Henry could perhaps fully explain why he made the choice he did. Perhaps it was the thrill of a challenge that he had never tried before; perhaps he wanted to get back at Fanny in some way for her disinterest and his subsequent humiliation.

Nevertheless, very soon something happened to grab the attention of even those living far away from London.

* * *

Fanny's father had hardly begun to relate the event as it had appeared in the newspaper when she gave a cry of surprise and had to sit down. It was too early in the morning for Mary to have yet stopped by, but Fanny felt a sudden need for her support. As soon as she had breakfasted, she hurried to her lodgings.

* * *

"Eloped?" Mary exclaimed. She lacked some of Fanny's surprise; she knew what sort of man her brother was, how easily he was tempted by a pretty face, and she was all too aware of Maria's attraction towards him. Still, she had been sure of his love of Fanny, and had believed that if anyone could improve Henry then it would be his soulmate.

Fanny nodded. She was shaking, barely able to speak for fear of bursting into tears.

Mary looked at her in concern. "Come, Fanny, this cannot _all_ be from the elopement; please, tell me what else is the matter."

Fanny didn't answer; she only thrust a letter into Mary's hand. It was dated weeks ago - far too long ago for it just to have arrived. It must have been read long ago, and the contents concealed from Mary for some reason which she could only guess at.

It was from Lady Bertram; her concern was striking, given her usual apathy towards her children, and seemed to bleed through the page.

Tom was ill. Dangerously so; a terrible accident of some sort. This on its own Fanny could have perhaps borne; coupled with Maria's elopement, it threatened to overwhelm her.

Mary accompanied her home. When they reached it, another letter was pushed into her hands, this time from her cousin, full of apologies for not being able to come to Portsmouth himself. Edmund almost begged for Fanny to return - they needed her, she was sorely missed, she could support them all. For the moment, Fanny couldn't even support herself. She barely waited to finish reading the letter before she collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

Mary didn't know what to do. She had no real experience in comforting people.

"Since his brother's illness now seems so bad that he cannot be spared to come for you, I shall write directly to inform Edmund that I shall take you back to Mansfield Park."

Fanny looked up at her, her face stained with tears. "Oh, no, no," she moaned. "They shall all blame you, as Mr Crawford's sister, for what has happened - and I could not bear _that_."

"Fanny," Mary said, sounding far calmer than she felt, "if this had happened earlier, a few months ago perhaps, then I would have blamed _you_ for Henry's elopement, because you did not accept his proposal. But I have come to realise that that would be unfair; there is no one to blame for his actions but himself, nothing caused it except his own folly."

Fanny was not comforted. "Regardless of how much you are to blame, you may still be disliked and mistreated. I could not, _would_ not, expose you to that."

Mary knelt down and gently took Fanny's hands, which were scrunched tightly in her lap. "If I am not there, who is to say that they will not be so unjust as to blame you? Fanny, there was a time where I would have left you alone at this point, for my own comfort, but I flatter myself that I am a better person than that _now_."

Fanny hesitated.

"Do you wish me to come with you?"

She nodded mutely. _More than anything else in the world I want you to come,_ she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Then there is no question of my coming or not." Mary reached up and wiped a tear from Fanny's eyes. "Do not cry, dearest; if I gain nothing else from my visit, it will at least frustrate Sir Thomas Bertram to no end."

That drew a laugh from Fanny. "So that is your only motivation, Mary? There is no love for me involved?"

Mary planted a kiss on her cheek. "Not one bit."

Fanny looked at Mary, kneeling in front of her, and a sudden overwhelming love came over her. Watching Mary gazing at her as she now did, she could almost believe that the feeling was mutual. Almost without thinking, she began to move her face closer to Mary's, her hands to cup Mary's head. Mary didn't resist, and a momentary burst of courage surged through Fanny -

-a knock at the door. Her courage was gone, the moment shattered by Susan, come to see whether Fanny was alright, since she had been with Mary since very early, and of course the news this morning must have been very shocking indeed. It seemed a return to reality for Fanny; she looked embarrassed at the thought of what she had been about to do. She stammered a short apology for taking up so much of Mary's time. Mary replied, saying it was no trouble, and she promised to bring a carriage round to the Price household the next morning.

* * *

Once Mary had returned to her own lodgings she sat down to write a short note, which she addressed to Edmund.

 _Do not trouble yourself by sending a carriage - I shall return Fanny myself._

-Mary


	8. Chapter 8

The carriage ride back to Mansfield Park was largely spent in a companionable silence. With any other person Mary would have felt an almost irrepressible urge to speak; quiet was not a thing that she was in any way used to and she would not have usually been wholly comfortable with it. But this was different - this was Fanny, and whilst perhaps she began the journey by forcing herself to be quiet, because she recognised that Fanny was in no state for conversation, she soon found herself enjoying it more than she would have expected. There wasn't that uncomfortableness which so often settled over two people in such a situation, where there is nothing much to say and a sort of reluctant embarrassment attached to making an attempt to find something. On the contrary, both of them drew so strong a comfort from the other's presence that, even in better, happier circumstances than those they currently found themselves in, they would probably have felt no overwhelming need to speak.

* * *

They had left Portsmouth early the previous morning, the Price family standing outside of their too small home to wave them away. Susan was the only one who looked truly heartbroken; the other children did not know their older sister well enough to regret her departure, her father had probably very little care for any of his children, and whilst Mrs Price was making a valiant attempt to look regretful, she could not quite stop the relief she felt from crossing her expression - it told what she would not say: that Fanny's departure was advantageous for her because it meant one less person to manage.

* * *

Mary felt a pressure on her shoulder - Fanny's head falling over as the motion of the carriage sent her to sleep, despite her worries. Perhaps their journey on both days had begun too early.

Mary covertly slipped an arm around Fanny's waist and pulled her ever so slightly closer. Then she let her head rest on Fanny's. She could feel Fanny's breath as it blew on her neck, and the warmth of Fanny's body against her own. If she hadn't known how this journey would end, or had been blissfully unaware of what worry creased Fanny's brow even now, Mary would have said that it was a perfect moment.

* * *

Nevertheless, it was over far too soon; there had to be a time when Mansfield Park came into view, a time when Fanny stirred and woke up, embarrassed at the position that her sleep had left her in. And above all there had to be a time where Mary would face a family who no doubt - due to her brother's recent conduct - would not welcome her.

Mary grasped Fanny's hand and squeezed it. She wasn't entirely sure if she did it for Fanny's sake or her own. A few months ago she could perhaps have breezed through the encounter unthinkingly, excusing her brother's conduct with ease, not caring what their reaction to her would be. The problem with a stronger moral compass was that it made experiences like this so much more difficult. (And, of course, there was Fanny to consider; if Mary misbehaved, the blame would likely land on her head for bringing her in the first place.)

"You do not have to -" Fanny began, but Mary waved her concern away.

"I have travelled this far with the intent to stay and provide support - it would be cruel to you to change my mind now."

Fanny looked relieved, and when Mary offered her arm to her she gladly took it. They both steeled themselves, and stepped inside.

* * *

"Miss Crawford," Sir Thomas said coldly. "Edmund informed me that you should be accompanying Fanny back." He didn't need to say that he hadn't been happy about the idea; it had been the first news that had greeted him on his return from London, where he had been attempting to find his daughter.

All eyes were upon her: Edmund looked relieved, pleased to see that Mary had arrived; Mrs Norris and Sir Thomas annoyed, no doubt making an unfavourable connection between her and her brother; Lady Bertram worried, perhaps concerned that an argument would break out and disrupt the fragile peace.

Mary smiled. "It was the least that I could do for such a dear friend as Fanny, sir."

Mrs Norris shot her a look of suspicion. "What do you have to say for the actions of your brother, Miss Crawford? I do hope that you have not come here to defend him in some way."

Mary returned the stare evenly. "Not at all. As to your question, I am afraid that I have as much control over my brother's actions as any of you can claim to have had over those of Mrs Rushworth. Henry, despite perhaps some evidence to the contrary, is a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, no matter how ill-advised they are."

Mrs Norris sniffed. "Hmm!"

"Fanny," Sir Thomas said stiffly, "may I speak to you in my study?" There was something in his manner and tone that reminded Fanny of the night of the ball - that sort of barely suppressed anger, doubtless to be released upon an unsuspecting victim at the slightest perceived insult; she agreed only in deference to his position as the head of the house, and perhaps a greater fear of what would happen should she refuse than if she complied.

"Of course," Mrs Norris began, before her niece could have been believed out of earshot by anyone, "if Fanny had only _accepted_ the young man..."

* * *

Sir Thomas was thunderous by the time they were enclosed by the four walls of his study; although he did not raise his voice, or at least not so much as to be heard by the rest of the family, his words and the obviousness of his struggle to keep his voice at a normal level soon made the extent of his anger clear. Fanny had to prevent herself from flinching away from him when he spoke.

"I suppose that it did not enter your mind - empty as it has seemed to be lately of any consideration for your family's feelings - that Mr Crawford's sister _would not be appreciated here_?"

What seemed like a thousand excuses, apologies, and entreaties for forgiveness flashed through Fanny's head in a moment, making her quite dizzy, but she remained silent despite them all.

"Well, girl?" he demanded impatiently. "Do you have an answer for me?"

Still she said nothing. Fanny was a girl for whom this sort of bravery - standing up to the man who had been an authority figure for her for over half of her life - was very difficult, and since in recent memory she had already clashed with Sir Thomas far too much for her own comfort , she took time to speak, and was careful with her words when she did.

"I think...that is, there is a _distinct possibility_...that you are rather too harsh on Mary, sir. It is, after all, the sin of her brother."

Sir Thomas curled his lip disdainfully. "And are sins not commonly shared within families? Perhaps she has tricked you, foolish as you are, and has come to steal one of my sons away from me, just as her brother has stolen my daughter. Edmund, at least, seems more than willing to submit to her."

Fanny was momentarily silenced. The idea of Edmund and Mary - no, it could not possibly be. And yet...perhaps she was truly _that_ undeserving of love, and they would both abandon her.

"Mary Crawford has been very kind to me," she eventually stammered out.

Her defence did nothing to convince Sir Thomas.

"Are you really so selfish," he sneered, "as to invite this...this woman into _my house_ solely because she has been kind to _you_?"

"She wishes to help -"

Sir Thomas snorted derisively. "What comfort could she -"

"If you please, sir," Fanny said, quietly but firmly, her courage recovered once again, "I had not finished speaking." Sir Thomas was so surprised at being cut off that he fell silent.

"I am as much hurt by recent events as the rest of the family, sir; Mary, because she recognises that, has come here to support me. Of course, I understand that her presence may not be appreciated by all; I am very sorry if I have caused pain, and I am sure that if you prefer it she could stay with her sister and I could visit her instead. But I _will not_ have her character besmirched - not by you or anyone else."

After this speech, Fanny seemed to deflate, and had to lean on a chair to support herself. It was as though this defence of Mary had taken everything out of her, and, it seemed, to no avail; Sir Thomas still regarded her with cruel eyes, unconvinced.

"How can you say that you are hurt by this," he said coolly, "when if you had only agreed to marry Mr Crawford, as I wished of you, we would not be in this situation at all? Did you know that Julia has _also_ gone, no doubt following her sister's poor example? No, I do not suppose that you were aware of that, or would care if you were. If Mr Crawford had not taken an interest in Maria, if he had been engaged to you as he was _supposed_ to be, then my daughters would both still be safely in London."

Fanny stared at him, wild eyed. All her courage was gone; she had no further defence from his assault.

"I -" she began, but she found that she could not find the words to go further.

"Leave," Sir Thomas said. "Stay out of my sight, or you shall learn just how _much_ I can punish you."

Fanny didn't need telling twice. Almost before he had uttered the last word, she had dashed from the room, back down the corridor.

Back towards Mary.

* * *

There were voices raised loud in argument when Fanny returned - Mary, and Mrs Norris, and (quieter, but still there, just barely audible) Edmund. She paused outside the room, unwilling to interrupt.

"I will not stand such - such verbal cruelty!" was Mrs Norris' exclamation.

"With all due respect, Aunt -" Edmund's quiet rejoinder "- Miss Crawford was merely defending your - rather unjust, I might add - comment on Fanny's character."

Was that tenderness she sensed in the way that he pronounced Mary's name? She remembered Sir Thomas' words on the subject - the words that she could not push from her mind despite herself. Fanny entered the room. There was Mary, and Edmund sitting near her, united against Mrs Norris.

Something - perhaps Sir Thomas' recent suggestion about Mary's intentions, coupled with how much her argument with him had shaken her - made the scene uniquely unpleasant for Fanny.

"Fanny!" Mary exclaimed joyfully, almost unthinkingly, as she caught sight of Fanny standing silently, petrified, in the doorway.

Fanny couldn't speak. Edmund and Mary...the more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that it was natural, almost destined to happen. And if Mary Crawford was to wed Edmund Bertram, then it was probably best for everyone if _she_ wasn't in the picture.

She stammered out some excuse - even she couldn't say what it was - and ran upstairs as fast as she could.

Mary was quick to follow her, barely sparing a glance for either Edmund or Mrs Norris, but _he_ stayed for a time still; having assumed that Fanny's rather unusual behaviour was due to some overheard comment from Mrs Norris, he remained to upbraid his aunt. It was of no use - she remained completely shameless as to her conduct towards Fanny, holding that she was perfectly justified in her opinions, and all his fruitless attempt to scold her served to do was delay him downstairs while Mary sought out Fanny.

* * *

Fanny was in the East Room, collapsed on the floor in misery, when Mary found her. At the creak of the door, she looked up, startled, and Mary could see the tears running down her face to drip, one by one in quick succession, onto the floor.

"Fanny!" Mary cried out. "Why, what is the matter?"

Fanny forced a smile, but it wobbled so much that it soon collapsed back into tears and she was unable to reply through her sobs.

Mary immediately hurried across the room to her side, and gently put her arms around her.

"Oh...everything that has happened recently!" Fanny finally managed to say through her tears, in way of explanation. It wasn't a very believable one; even she didn't sound wholly convinced of it. But to tell the truth seemed unthinkable to her.

"I cannot help you if you will not tell me your troubles," Mary told her firmly. "I have learned my lesson well enough not to press you, but..." she let herself trail off.

Fanny was silent for a long time. She leant into Mary and stayed there, listening to her breathing.

"Mary," she said at last, "are you in love with Edmund?"

Mary stared at her in disbelief for a moment. When she realised that Fanny was completely serious, she burst out laughing.

"Edmund?" she said incredulously. "Dear me, no; I have never for one second thought of Edmund in that way! Well...perhaps I once allowed myself to consider the possibility, but that was a very long time ago indeed, and not for more than a moment even then. Whatever gave you such an idea, Fanny?"

"Oh, it was only a silly thought..."

"Are _you_ in love with him, Fanny?" Mary had that teasing smile of hers on again, but there was a seriousness in her eyes, a slight sharpness in her voice, that belied it. "Is that why you asked me? To find out whether or not I should be considered a rival for his affections? Fanny! - you surely cannot be jealous?"

Fanny stiffened against her, then stood up. She looked uncomfortable, confused. "I do not think..." she began, "that is...perhaps once I _did_ love Edmund - it feels so long ago that I cannot be certain any more - but now...now there is - _has been_ for some time someone...someone else." Fanny took a deep, shaky breath.

Mary would have felt jealous, had she not already been aware of the names on Fanny's wrists. "Oh?" she said, a note of enquiry in her tone. But the confession had drained Fanny - she only shook her head, as if to say "I cannot tell you."

Mary made a decision.

"Fanny," she said, slowly rolling up her sleeves as she spoke, "I have felt for some time now that I should repay the glimpse I had of your wrists, as unwanted as it was on your part, with a view of my own." In truth, the idea had just occurred to her, to serve as a sort of reassurance for Fanny.

There! The names were out in the open. _Mary Crawford_ ("a relic of my earlier, more selfish days, before I met you," she joked) and _Fanny Price_.

Fanny's eyes seemed almost transfixed with the sight of her name.

"I see," she said slowly. "It is to show that we are well suited as friends."

"Fanny," Mary replied, "it is not in reference to our friendship."

Fanny's eyes flickered up to meet Mary's - confused, and perhaps (yes!) hopeful. "How are you so sure of that?" she said, overwhelming emotion making her voice practically a whisper.

Mary stood up and took a step towards Fanny. "Fanny, my love," she said gently, "are you really so oblivious?" There was a new look in her eyes - or perhaps it had been there the whole time, only waiting to be noticed.

Fanny was no longer crying - her sadness had all but fled. Instead, she felt scared. To love another woman - she had been dodging around the idea, switching between denial and self-hatred and finally, the hope that she could ignore it. Mary seemed so accepting of it, so sure that it was nothing wrong, but Mary had also, not so long ago, been rather unconcerned about whether or not she was good. A decision had to be made; Mary was standing there, expectantly, possibly even- surprisingly - a little nervously. Fanny knew that she wouldn't force her to anything - that assurance comforted her and made her feel safe, and all at once, with that realisation, the fear washed away.

"I was so frightened," she said, slightly shakily, but nevertheless bravely. "I thought...I thought that there was something _wrong_ with me. Mary, you cannot know for how long I tried to deny my feelings - it was as though, every time I looked at you, I was going through torture. And yet -" she took a deep breath "- I could not ignore it; it pressed upon me until I was forced to acknowledge it, and perhaps...perhaps accept it as part of myself. I do not know in my mind if it is right, or Christian, to love you, or to wish to spend the rest of my time on Earth with you - as you can see, doubts still plague me even now - but it _feels_ so. It feels... _good_ , and it brings me great happiness to know that my feelings are...are reciprocated." She smiled shyly.

Mary's smile had been growing throughout her speech, and as Fanny finished, she encircled her arms around Fanny's waist, pulling her closer.

"Kiss me," she murmured.

And so Fanny did.

Nothing in her life up until that point could have quite prepared her for what it was like to kiss Mary Crawford. All the tension that had been building, almost unconsciously, between them was suddenly released in that one moment; all the passion that each of them had for the other was realised. Fanny threw her arms around Mary's neck and pulled her closer still, a feat which made them almost lose balance, and caused their bodies to brush together. They pulled away for a moment to catch their breath - for even the most passionate of lovers need air - only to lean back in to kiss again.

"Fanny? Mary? What are you doing?" Edmund, suddenly, seemingly come out of nowhere, though in reality it had only been that the two young women were so absorbed in each other that they had not heard the tell-tale signs of his arrival - the creak on the stair, the footsteps, the sound of the door opening.

The scene froze, no more perfect a tableau than if it had been meticulously planned; then fear, pushing apart so quickly it almost beggared belief. Mary cursing herself - she should have _known_ that Edmund would follow them up! - Fanny with her mind so terror filled that she barely had any space left to think.

Edmund, advancing towards them in the same way one might approach a dangerous animal, repeated his question. He did not, for the moment, look angry - only very bewildered. Still Fanny was too paralysed by fear to speak. She opened her mouth, but to no avail; no sound - at least, no _intelligible_ sound - would come out. Mary spoke up in her stead.

"I think, Mr Bertram, that you well could see what it was that we were doing."

Edmund did not have it in him to hate Mary, and so the look he gave her had little more than a hint of reprimand in it. Behind that, though, was clear confusion. "It is true that I could see...but I could not _understand_ the picture my own eyes presented me with."

"You will not tell anyone," Mary told him. It might have been meant as a question, and perhaps from another it could have been, but the tone of Mary's voice, the defiant glint in her eyes as she stared at Edmund, transformed it into a demand.

To his credit, he hesitated for barely a moment, before saying, "No; no-one shall know of this but us." Another pause. "I was, at one point at least, intending to propose to you, Mary. Now I can see just how futile that wish was." His voice was cold, as though all - or most, since he _had_ agreed to keep the secret - of his kindness had gone away.

"Edmund," Fanny said, her voice heavy with all the weight that came with sudden sadness on the heels of great happiness, "Edmund, do you hate me? Please...tell me truthfully; I could not bear it if you hated me, but I could bear it even less if you lied to me."

Edmund looked at her and softened. "No," he said, "I do not think that I could ever hate you, Fanny. But I shall have to think this matter over. If you both could do me the pleasure of remaining here; I may wish to speak to you both." With this, he bowed stiffly and exited the room.

No sooner had he gone, than Fanny's tears finally began to flow. She allowed Mary to gently embrace her and lead her to a chair, leaning her head against Mary's chest as her body shook with sobs.

* * *

It was a long time before Edmund came back, pale faced but calm. "Fanny," he said measuredly, "may I speak with you? Outside, if you please."

Fanny looked at Mary doubtfully. She smiled and squeezed her hand.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Fanny followed her cousin out of the room.

* * *

Edmund looked...well, he looked as though he was trying to emulate his father's sternness, but he cared far too much about Fanny to greatly succeed. Still, it was enough to concern her; she stood there trembling as though she had been caught committing some great crime and was now before a judge.

Edmund took one look at her and all his attempts at strictness vanished. Due, in part, to Fanny's nervousness, he was suddenly reminded of the scared little girl who he had found crying all those years ago; she was all he could see. How could he ever be angry at _her_? He had been preparing himself to scold her, to hopefully convince her to turn away from...whatever her relationship with Mary was. But now she was here, holding back tears right in front of him, doubt began to seep into his mind.

"Please," Fanny began quietly, "please, I am prepared for any punishment, any at all - I shall submit more than willingly - but please, do not hurt Mary."

Edmund stared at her, all thoughts of the speech he had so carefully planned gone out of his head. And then, very gradually, an idea began to occur to him. He thought of Mary's name on Fanny's wrist, of her original reluctance - bordering on fear, now that he thought back - to befriend Mary, followed by a quickly developing friendship, a closeness that he had not realised was a product of something other than sisterly love. He thought of Mary's bitter melancholy after she had argued with Fanny, and her eager insistence on accompanying Fanny back to Mansfield.

"Fanny," he said, "do you truly love Miss Crawford?"

She regarded him cautiously. "Would you be very angry if I said yes?"

A look of hurt flashed across Edmund's face. "No," he said, more forcefully than he had meant to, "I would not be angry. You must know that I could never truly be angry with you, Fanny."

Fanny hesitated. The idea that she couldn't trust him sent a pang through Edmund's heart. Then, "Yes," she said at last, "I truly love her." With her declaration, the fear he had seen in her when he had first confronted her began to disappear; it gladdened him.

"You may go now, Fanny," Edmund said gently.

* * *

Left on his own, he returned to his thoughts. He could not believe, somehow, that Fanny could ever do anything truly wrong. But this? This confused him. For two women to love each other in the same way that a man loves a woman? And yet...there _was_ love there, at least on Fanny's side. Edmund had been so sure of the decision he was going to make, to forbid them from seeing each other, perhaps to find an excuse to send Mary away, but now he was coming to realise that he couldn't bear to take a decision that would so clearly make Fanny unhappy. He wasn't keen for that to happen, particularly since he was acutely aware that of late he hadn't been paying as much attention to her, or her happiness, as he should have.

He didn't know what to do, and that disturbed him; he had always felt himself so sure of the moral choice, the right thing to do, even when others had hesitated. So why was he so unsure of this? It was like his head and his heart were telling him two wholly contrasting things. Of course, he knew what would make Fanny happy -

There was no question, really; he didn't know why he'd ever thought there was.

* * *

When Edmund stepped back into the room, he was grave-faced and silent. Fanny still wouldn't quite look at him, but Mary met his eye with a steady gaze, as though daring him to disapprove. Edmund shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, then," Mary said impatiently when he remained silent, "have you come to a decision?"

Edmund looked down at the ground for a moment, as though hoping that it would provide him with some much needed advice. "I have one question," he said, once he had fully observed all of the small details of the floor beneath his feet. "Mary: do you love Fanny, and promise to care for her?" There was a sad sincerity in his eyes as he looked at her in question; he was fully aware of his own recent negligence of Fanny.

"Yes," Mary said. "I do love her, and I do promise to care for her." She couldn't help but add one last bitter comment. "Heaven knows that her own family has largely been rather deficient in that regard."

Edmund didn't try to contest her; he looked more relieved than anything.

"Of course, it would be impossible for the two of you to marry," he said, "which would usually be enough to make me disapprove of any kind of union, even ignoring...other factors. Perhaps in the past I would have been against this match because of that, but in these last days my trust in the sanctity of marriage has been rather shaken. How can it be that someone like my sister, who could so little enjoy her husband's company, and who would willingly commit adultery, is allowed the opportunity to marry, and yet two people who so clearly love each other are not? Still, there is nothing I can do, not without going against the church that I have sworn myself too." He looked guilty. "You must understand me well enough to know that I could never do that. I can only give you my blessing."

Mary was now watching him with a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes. "And is the blessing of a clergyman not the next best thing to a marriage?"

Edmund laughed. It was a welcome sound, after the seriousness of the last hour. "I suppose that it is."

Fanny came to stand next to Mary, who put her arm around her. She looked resplendent in her happiness. "Thank you," she said.

Edmund bowed deeply. "I shall impose on you no longer." He spun on his heel and walked out of the room. They could hear his footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

Mary looked at Fanny. Fanny looked at Mary.

"Now," said Mary, "where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?"

And she kissed her again.

* * *

All that remains now is to tie up the loose ends often so thoughtlessly left dangling at the end of such stories. The fates of the Bertram family are, for the most part, common knowledge: Tom recovered, and perhaps gained some maturity from his experience with a life threatening illness; Maria was found and soundly punished - sent away from home, with Mrs Norris rushing to join her (whilst Henry, her accomplice in wickedness, only received slight reprimand - such is the unfairness of the world); Julia, to the surprise of many, not least her own family, ended happily married to Mr Yates. Indeed, they were so happy and full of love that they felt inclined to share this love with others, which (it need not be said) resulted in a rather curious domestic situation. Those who were inclined to gossip shook their heads and tutted, finding it shameful that Mr Yates should be so unaware of his wife's lovers, or that Mrs Yates should be so unsuccessful at keeping her husband by her side; perhaps if they knew the truth - that both acted with the full knowledge, consent, and occasional participation of their spouse - they would have shaken their heads yet more vigorously, tutted louder.

Dr Grant, that man so invaluable to the plot of this story that he has scarcely had cause to be mentioned before this point, soon died; as a result, Edmund was able to take the parsonage as well as the living at Thornton Lacey. He found it to be unusually empty for a place so much smaller than what he was used to, and often found himself staring absentmindedly at the two names on his wrists - _Fanny Price_ and _Mary Crawford_. He could not believe that he had chosen wrongly, but still, he could not help but wonder how empty the house would have felt with either of them living there with him. Perhaps he learned how to be alone without feeling lonely; perhaps he met someone else to fall in love with. It matters not; that is not the story being told. Already too much time has passed since we last checked on our heroines.

Mary still enjoyed her life in town - nothing could change _that_ \- but she had come to appreciate the countryside enough that she easily made the decision to buy a house there - near Mansfield, of course, so that Fanny would not feel too far away from the place she so cherished. For Fanny was soon convinced to join her there ("We _are_ practically married, after all," Mary had reminded her with a smile, "and it is only proper for a married couple to live together.") Occasionally, she was even induced to accompany Mary to London, where they often met the Yateses - _that_ couple was cheerful and friendly with people who they soon understood had similarly unusual soulmate marks to themselves.

Of course, Henry still wrote letters to his sister whenever he remembered to (that is to say, not very often). When they did arrive, they were longer ones than he had used to write when they were still in the habit of seeing each other regularly; his writing was invariably full of affection, occasionally remorse, and often even enquiries after Fanny. From them, Mary learned that the mark of Fanny's name had faded completely from his wrist; she replied with sympathy, but she scolded him for it, and hoped that it had taught him a lesson (although _that_ she doubted, since nothing else had effectively done the job). She rarely brought them up to Fanny, aware that it would cause her pain, but it was not a correspondence she felt any particular need to hide either. She knew that Fanny, of all people, would not begrudge communication with a dearly loved brother, even if Mary had a far more critical opinion of _hers_ than Fanny did of William.

Of course, they sometimes quarrelled, but they made up as people in love do, and always endeavoured to be considerate of each other's feelings, something especially pleasurable to Fanny, so used to having her emotions neglected.

In short, though they did not live entirely happily ever after - a term reserved for those without human flaws, and who never face difficulties - they came as close to that happy bliss as two people very much in love can ever be.


End file.
